Keeping Your Promise

Come to Me

Summary: Yeah, maybe that wasn't the best decision after all...

WARNINGS: Bloodplay-ish, verbal abuse, humiliation, violence, light bondage, Pussy torture.

The bruising was nearly imperceptible after a week, even so you concentrated on your reflection, trying to rest Mason's shirt over the ghosted mark splayed over your larynx. Mason's apartment was never well lit anyway, acting as an additional cover for what had once required a skilled hand at concealer and powder. Pulling back on the shoulders of the borrowed shirt, you mussed with it until an exasperated sigh dropped your hands to your sides, a flat face staring back at you as you reluctantly surrendered after five wasted minutes of meticulous staging. Mason was always over-observant, a skill necessary for every physician, but only currently serving as a foundation to your overthinking.

"Hey, I threw your uniform in the washer while you were showering," Mason called beyond the bathroom door. "It just finished drying. I'm gonna put it on the coffee table. Is that okay?"

Mason had always been a genuine person, always showing his affection in addition to saying it. After months of chaos, his little act of kindness warmed through your heart, a sense of home you had only ever felt when he was around. It had been so long since you'd got to spend quality time with him – gosh, it had to have been before graduation, before careers and superiors came into your lives – and it was nice having him near, feeling safe for the first time since returning to Starkiller.

"Yeah, that's perfect," you called back. "Thank you."

"It's no problem. How're those clothes working for you?" His voice carried closer to the door. "I made sure they were from my pre-jacked years."

A laugh gave way to something that resembled a smile into the mirror. "Yeah, okay, Mr. Tough Guy. I'm sure your gigantic arms would shred this shirt to pieces by now."

"Oh, so you think I have gigantic arms, huh? Why don't you come out here and I'll give you a ticket to the gun show?"

You shook your head in the mirror, rolling your eyes and smiling. "You are ridiculous, Mason McCarty. Sometimes I can't remember why I'm friends with you."

"Oh, yeah right. You know you love me."

With one last primp at your collar, and a tug at the tied drawstrings hanging at your hips, you pulled the door open and leaned onto the threshold. Mason was doing the same, only mirrored, looking down to you, crossing his arms across his chest. He was wearing a rendition of what he'd given you, only less worn. He wasn't wrong, though, his arms were impressive. He'd gotten bigger since you'd met with him before the Finalizer.

"I tolerate you," you teased. "Don't get it twisted."

He tilted his head, his face falling into an exaggerated pout. "Is that how you speak to someone who got your favorite for dinner?"

The question made you aware of the familiar aroma that filled the room. You looked behind him, spotting the take-out bag atop the coffee table, your uniform neatly folded next to it. This was all so nice, like a sleepover, though you suspected this arrangement would last at least a week, long enough to scout out your apartment and get the locks changed.

"Fine," you shrugged, "maybe I do love you. But only for your food."

The two of you bumped each other's sides and laughed your way to the couch. Mason unpacked the bag, handing you a utensil and a handful of napkins before opening the take-out containers. You curled up into the corner of the couch, resting your food between your chest and legs, facing him as he dug in with you.