Okay, guys, so there's a trigger warning for today's chapter (mentions of abuse, self-harm) just so everyone is aware. This chapter is one I've been looking forward to for a while, and I'm really, really excited about it. Hopefully ya'll like it, too. The title is "Bury It" by Chvrches, a song I love very much. As always, thank you all for your reviews and support. Let me know what you think!
7. Bury It
Mason
"I'm sorry to bother you so early. I just…my bergamot levels were getting dangerously low."
"It's no bother at all, dear. I'm usually up with the sun anyway."
Mason sat at Bill's kitchen table, tracing the rim of a tea cup with her pinky. He sat across from her with his own cup, smiling blandly at it like he didn't know she was there for a reason. But of course he was wiser than that.
"So," Mason began. "You know how yesterday I went on that run? With Aiden and the others?"
Bill nodded soberly. "Yes, I'd heard that."
News of Aiden and Noah's deaths had spread like wildfire through the community, but because Nicholas and Glenn provided conflicting stories on the matter, none of the Alexandrians knew quite what to think.
Mason sighed shakily. "When we were in the warehouse, there was this moment. My…friend… He was cornered by walkers. And I saved him, but…" She paused to sigh again. Her hands trembled so badly that tea sloshed over the side of the cup.
"I would be willing to die for my family. I would die for any of them. But with him, it was like…I couldn't stand the thought of him not existing. I knew if he…if he wasn't here, I couldn't be, either."
Bill nodded at his own cup, like it was the one telling the story.
"And what do you think that means?" he asked.
"I think…"
But she couldn't say it. Couldn't think it. Couldn't even begin to process it.
"I don't know. Everything lately has been…just completely fucked up."
"Of course it has," Bill said. "On top of everything else- surviving in the woods, fending off cannibals, reacclimating to society- on top of all that, you lost someone you were in love with. It isn't easy under the best of circumstances."
"I think about Beth all the time. There's never a moment where she's not there, somehow. I can't dream without seeing her. In some ways it's like she's not even gone, and that's nice. But… When I lost her I thought I lost everything, except I didn't. And it wasn't just that I wasn't alone, it wasn't that my family was there to keep me going. It was-"
(Eugene)
"-my friend."
"The one you saved."
"Yes. Except he keeps saving me, and I don't…I can't…"
Tears blurred her vision. She glared down at her tea to hide them.
"Why don't you tell me about him?" Bill suggested. "I'd like to hear about this man you think so much of."
"Well he's… He's smart. Smarter than me, or at least in different ways. He's funny, he can always make me laugh. He's…braver than he wants to believe he is. He has the potential to be so much and he doesn't see it, or he's scared to. He makes me feel like I have that potential, too. Like I have a place in this world. He's like my… I mean, he gets me."
Her whole body was shaking. Was it hot in here? Was she spontaneously combusting? Eugene could probably tell her. He'd probably spout off a minute-by-minute inventory of exactly what kind of coup her molecules were performing.
She wished he was there.
She wished she didn't wish that.
A tear dropped delicately into her tea.
"How the fuck-" She broke off, swallowing a sob. "This isn't right. None of this is right. I can't deal with this."
She was ashamed of her glistening eyes, her flaming cheeks. She was ashamed of the weakness in her limbs and her dizzy, rushing heart.
But Bill appraised her seriously, without pity. He looked so much like Hershel in that moment.
"Listen to me, dear," he said. "I wasn't much older than you when I lost my first wife. Helena. One of the loveliest souls you could ever hope to meet, but she fought depression for many years and it eventually claimed her. My world was shattered. I was a rudderless man, simply trying not to sink, not at all concerned with where I was going.
"Janet was there for me. She was the only one who could pull me from the darkness. There was no denying that what we felt for each other was beyond friendship and we were married within a year."
Mason flinched.
"Now you may think me the lowest man in existence, loving another woman so soon after losing my Helena, and I struggled for years with that, but there is not one part of me that regrets it. Not one damn iota. Life does not happen at your convenience, Mason. But sometimes it gives you moonlight when you thought there would only be darkness."
The words ran through her like a knife, scraping her ribcage. Her hands gripped the tea cup hard enough that she worried it might break.
"I should go," she finally said. Her voice was low and hoarse.
"Don't do that."
She looked up, startled by his concern. He reached across the table and patted her hand.
"I don't have any right to tell you how to live your life, dear, but I would hate to see you pass up a chance at happiness. It's so fragile these days. You deserve someone who will bring you light."
I don't deserve shit.
Averting her gaze, Mason got to her feet. "Thanks for letting me bother you," she said. "But I really should be going. I'm…Rick wants me for something."
"Mason-"
"Thanks for the tea."
She escaped quickly before she could break any more of her heart.
~m~
Her cuts were healing up nicely, but the wound from yesterday was deep and needed frequent re-bandaging. She'd refused to visit Pete to get it checked out, so the bandages were merely strips of fabric from her old, tattered clothes. She couldn't find it in herself to worry that it might get infected. She felt numb, teetering on the edge of feeling too much.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed and had only just taken the binding off when Eugene opened the door. Frantically she drew her shirt down but from the way he stared at her she knew he'd seen.
"Mason," he whispered.
She glared at him. "Get out."
The scars, he'd seen the scars, he'd seen-
"How…how did that happen?"
"Get. Out."
Eugene swallowed convulsively. "Did you do that?"
"Eugene, get the fuck out!"
"No."
Mason leapt to her feet, quivering with rage and fear. She felt like the thinnest glass. Winter-brittle.
"Fine. I'll go."
"Mason, please, if you're…if you're hurting yourself, I-"
"What? You'll what, Eugene? You think you can help me? You can't. I am not your problem."
His eyes welled with anguish. "Mason…"
She swept past him, snatching her iPod from the dresser. "Please. Just…just give me a little space, okay? I need…I need some air."
She left before he could respond. It felt like she was fleeing too often these days.
Eugene
He stared at the spot on his arm. The little patch of discoloration was perfectly round. Perfectly the size of a cigarette.
It wasn't from his mother. He always had to remind himself of that. She had never been that for him, she'd just acted like it sometimes. When it was convenient.
He sighed and stood up from the bed.
He needed some air, too.
Rosita was sitting with Tara in the infirmary. She nodded to him as he sat down but said nothing. He wondered if she would ever forgive him.
The room was silent aside from the ticking of a clock and the occasional rustle as Rosita turned a page in the magazine she was reading. It felt disturbingly like a hospital, an actual hospital, and he had the sudden urge to run.
How many times had he woken up in hospitals? That smell of iodoform and cafeteria food and sickness, doctors and their questions…
(Has your mommy ever done anything that hurt you?)
No, of course not. Not in any way that would leave bruises. She was too smart for that, except on rare occasions, like with the cigarette. But that had been his fault. He shouldn't have thought he could stand up to her, stand up for himself…
(You're lucky I don't cut that smartass mouth right off your face)
He stifled a whimper and closed his eyes.
He remembered studying the human anatomy in books while the other kids played on swing sets and jungle gyms.
He remembered mapping out his circulatory system.
He remembered drawing X's on the places where he would bleed out the fastest with a red marker.
He remembered stealing the knife from the kitchen one night when his mother was out and his father in a drunken slumber.
He remembered being nine years old and laying in that bathtub and sobbing into his hands because he couldn't do it, he couldn't do it, he was a coward, he was nothing, his mom was right.
He remembered putting the knife away, just exactly how he'd found it. Going to school the next morning like nothing had ever happened.
Screaming on the inside. Shutting down on the outside.
He couldn't show emotion. He couldn't.
He became the perfect liar.
Best liar in the multiverse.
At some point the memories melted into uneasy dreams. His mother slamming groceries on the counter and Eugene cringing away because he'd been bad, he hadn't cleaned up like she'd told him to.
His father sharing a sip of beer with Eugene when his mother wasn't looking, telling him his intelligence was the only way he could escape.
Mason walking through the door with a bottle of vodka and a silly grin, extending her hand to Eugene and telling him that he was more than he thought he was…
Something crashed loudly.
Eugene jolted out of his restless snooze. He was back in the infirmary, and Rosita was picking something up off the ground with a smug smile, and someone was sitting next to him.
He stared at Abraham, who stared back as though caught between fight and flight. Eventually Eugene could no longer stand the silence.
"Good afternoon," he said.
Abraham said nothing.
"I've been…considering implications I hadn't wanted to before now. I will remark about those at this time." He paused to swallow nervously. "You got us here. All I did was craft a top shelf lie, to which a person with strength and heroism could apply their talents. My bet was you needed that. I thank you."
Finally, Abraham looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time in nearly a month.
"I am sorry," Eugene said. His voice shook. "And I mean both emphatically and in equal measure."
After a long, long pause, Abraham nodded. "I'm…I'm sorry, too."
"That's utterly and completely unnecessary."
"I almost killed you."
Eugene blinked. "Well…yes. There's that."
They fell silent after that, and though it took a few minutes for Eugene's heart to stop thundering he felt better.
"So. Now that we're friends again, I was wondering if you might be amenable to assisting me in a new endeavor."
Abraham arched an eyebrow in disbelief. Eugene smirked a little.
"I assure you, there is nothing cross-country about it."
~m~
"Get off your grisly ass, soldier! Do you want to be walker chuck?"
Eugene struggled to his feet, covered in sweat and dirt. He tried to ignore the little audience watching his training- Carol, Rosita, Carl and some of his friends. It just made his face flush even redder.
"Again!" Abraham barked, and looking at him, his sturdy posture and iron muscles, Eugene couldn't believe he had ever thought this was a good idea.
Still he moved, in the way Abraham had shown him, and when Abraham made to knock him on his ass, Eugene blocked him with his arm.
"Yes!" Abraham exclaimed. "That's more like it."
"Alright, Eugene!" Carl cheered.
Eugene ducked his head shyly. "I think now would be an ideal time for a water break. Pause on a high note."
Abraham shrugged. "It's your dime, brother."
It was a relief to rest for a bit. They'd been at it for at least two hours now, and Abraham was a rigorous drill sergeant to say the very least.
As he sipped his water, Eugene's eyes were drawn to the gate, where Michonne and Sasha had appeared.
The water caught in his throat like it had suddenly turned to glass. Was Mason back yet? Had she returned to the house?
"Michonne," he called. "While you were out, did you see Mason?"
She shook her head. "Did she leave?"
"I don't know," he confessed, his stomach twisting with guilt. "She said she needed air, but that was several hours ago. It's possible she is back at the house as we speak, but…"
He trailed off, realizing by Michonne's grim expression that she understood his anxiety.
"I'll head back out," she said. Then she surprised him by laying a comforting hand on his arm. "You check around here. See if she did go back to the house."
"Yes, I'll do that."
But the house was empty, and no one he talked to had seen Mason since that morning.
The guilt bubbled into panic. Why the fuck had he let her go? Why hadn't he gone with her, done something?
Because he hadn't wanted to push her. Not if she was volatile. Not if she was hurting herself. He knew full well that sometimes the most well-meaning intentions generated the opposite result.
Wringing his hands, he stared miserably at the gate. He knew she was out there somewhere, and he knew she needed him. The thought of going out there nearly choked him with terror, but…
He had his knife. He could borrow a gun. Michonne had already left with Rosita but perhaps he could catch up with them.
And even if he couldn't, Mason still needed him.
He turned and hurried for the armory.
Mason
The Alexandrian at the gate didn't question where Mason was going, probably because she still looked feral enough to take care of herself. She had her iPod and her fire iron, her handgun and a roll of metal twine. There was something quiet and dangerous and unquantifiable inside her. It lurked in places she thought once dead.
She skirted the road in favor of the trees. The day was gorgeous and warm, the sky brilliant blue. It seemed unfair for everything else to seem so untroubled when she herself was a goddamn mess.
She was irrationally happy when a few walkers crossed her path. She swung her iron like she was playing baseball. She had fun with them. Jesus, it was just good to feel something other than terror, something other than grief or guilt or whatever the fuck else was keeping her from sleeping.
Life does not happen at your convenience, Mason.
Yeah, no shit.
When she saw the trees she fell in love with their perfection. Five of them all clustered in a neat semi-circle as though heaven-sent, although she doubted heaven would ever consider sending her a damn thing.
But sometimes it gives you moonlight when you thought there would only be darkness.
She set to work immediately, falling back into old habits with terrifying ease. She unspooled the wire, wrapped it in wide, concentric arcs around her fortuitous trees. She didn't bother digging the trench this time, and there was no solar charger to hook a boombox up to. It didn't matter. She could call the horde without it.
Turning her iPod up as loud as it would go, she hung the headphones around her neck and began to sing. Her voice was strong and wild. Angry. She sat rigidly against the fortuitous trees, knees crooked in a triangle, fists clenched against them. Her thoughts whirled, tangling like Christmas lights.
Why don't you tell me about him?
He was smart. Funny. Braver than he dared to be.
He was not a woodsman by any stretch of the imagination, but he knew how to build water filters.
He was an RPG man, but he crushed it at strategy games.
He loved animals, and thought that aliens built the pyramids, and believed DC was superior to Marvel.
He smiled more for her than he did for anyone else.
He cuddled away her nightmares and never complained when she woke up screaming.
He sang with her, got high with her, carried her to bed when she'd had too much to drink.
He didn't think she was crazy. He cried when she was broken.
He was her partner in crime.
You deserve someone who will bring you light.
But she'd had that. She'd had Beth, she'd had a physical ray of sunshine.
Now here was Eugene and he was fucking with her head and how could she be feeling what she was feeling about him, how could she betray Beth like that?
Mason. Sweetheart. It's not her. Beth is dead.
So what was the point then? What was the point of falling in love with Beth only to be separated from her, to think they would be reunited, to have some tyrant bitch shoot her in the head? What was the point of any of this?
There was no point. There was no point. It was a fucking joke.
Dimly she was aware that the horde had come, that her voice was cracking with tears, that she was unable to remember why she should stay alive.
She felt no pull toward the warmth of the sun or the chirping of birds or the soft night air, except that he existed.
The outer wire rippled as the walkers heaved against it. There were so many that they spilled over and began writhing against the second cable. Mason watched them dully.
You should've died after Gina, she thought. You should've let yourself die.
She remembered her promise to Daryl, just yesterday morning, and flinched. But how could he expect her to keep it when all she brought was chaos?
She kept singing, quieter now the walkers had come. The third wire, the last, began to tremble as a walker made its way over, then another and another. They were all around her now, more than a dozen.
She steeled herself. She would not be afraid. She would not be afraid and she would not think of Eugene, because she knew if she did her resolve would crumble like stale goddamn bread.
A walker made its way over the final barrier and loomed above her. Its teeth gnashed as it fell over her, clawing at her shirt.
This is better, she thought. This is best.
She closed her eyes.
Blood sprayed her face, but it was not her own. She gasped, jerking back against the tree as the walker thumped to the ground, headless.
Michonne stood over her with eyes like thunderclouds. Mason stared back in shock, too breathless to speak. Her heart flickered like a candle flame, rapid, hot, frantic.
When she didn't move, Michonne whirled back into the fray, side by side with Rosita, her machete gleaming in the afternoon sun. They were badly outnumbered, and that was the only thing that brought Mason to her feet.
She slayed walkers in a daze, each one a twist in her stomach as it collapsed in its final death.
That could've been her.
That should've been her.
When all the walkers had fallen, they stood within the ring of them, choked by the stench of rotting viscera. There was only a single beat of stillness in which Mason tried desperately to catch her breath, and then Rosita rounded on her.
"What the fuck was that? Idioto jodido!"
Abruptly, like the snap of a branch in a storm, Mason's blood flamed. She stepped forward until she was nose-to-nose with Rosita, trembling with rage, hazy with it.
"None of your fucking business," she snarled.
"It's not my business? Are you kidding?"
"Does it look like I'm kidding? Get the fuck out of here."
"We're not going anywhere," Michonne growled, flanking Rosita with a dangerous expression. "We're not leaving until you come home with us."
"Leave me alone."
Rosita shook her head, eyes wide. "I can't believe this. I mean, how fucking selfish are you? Coming out here as walker bait? Get over yourself."
She almost hit her. She wanted to. Her fists clenched so tight her knuckles stung.
"I am not your responsibility."
"Yeah, well, while you're out here thinking only about your damn self, there's people who need you. Living, breathing people."
"Mason!"
His voice came like a punch to the gut, hard enough that she wavered on unsteady feet.
She turned slowly. Reluctantly. Because she knew once she saw him
it was over.
She caught a brief glimpse of his relieved, terrified face before he swept her into his arms, holding her tight enough that she thought he might crush her.
He was warm and safe. He smelled like home.
And that was it. The end. She had no more fight left in her.
Glistening with tears, she sagged against his chest and hugged him back.
~m~
It was a quiet walk home. The air prickled with tension but Mason was too exhausted to care. She wanted unconsciousness. She wanted not to think for a few precious hours.
But as they were passing the threshold of the gate, shouts rent the air, jarring her heart. None of them hesitated. They ran toward the sound, drawing their weapons.
A group had gathered in a ragged circle outside Jessie and Pete's house, all of them looking on in horror at Rick and Pete in a bloodstained tangle on the ground.
"Stop!"
Jessie reached for her husband, trying desperately to tug him away. He swung a punch at her and caught her in the face, sending her sprawling.
With a vicious snarl, Rick slammed his head into Pete's nose and gained the upper hand. His fingers closed around Pete's throat. His eyes were dark, unseeing and wild. There was no doubt in Mason's mind that he meant to kill Pete.
"Dad, get off of him!"
Carl rushed in and grabbed his dad's arm.
Rick shoved him away.
Mason moved then, leaping forward. He could do whatever he wanted with Pete, but she would not allow him to lash out at her family.
Before she could reach him, however, Eugene snatched her back, wrapping his arms tight around her waist.
"No. No," he urged.
"Let me go. He can't-"
"Rick! Stop this right now."
Rick looked up at Deanna, his eyes finally clearing a bit. He seemed to realize for the first time that he was surrounded by onlookers. A few of them moved closed in.
He drew his gun and they jumped back. Pete slumped on the pavement.
"Or what?" he said. "You gonna kick me out?"
Deanna stared in shock. "Put that gun down, Rick."
Rick huffed. "You still don't get it. None of you do. We know what needs to be done and we do it. We're the ones who live. You people, you just sit and plan and hesitate. You pretend like you know when you don't. Well, you wanna live? You want this place to stay standing? Then your way of doing things is done. Things don't get better because you want them to. Starting right now, we have to live in the real world. We have to control who lives here."
"That's never been more clear to me than it is right now."
Deanna's voice was hard, cold, and Mason's spine went rigid as a razor.
Rick's expression sharpened dangerously. "Me? You mean me?" he said. "Your way is gonna destroy this place. It's gonna get people killed, it's already gotten people killed. And I'm not gonna stand by and just let it happen. If you don't fight, you die. I'm not gonna stand by and-"
Michonne came out of nowhere, knocking him across the head.
He thudded to the ground, unconscious, leaving the rest of them to stare at each other in silent horror.
