michael mason x reader headcanons
a/n: let's kick things off, shall we? I've decided to stay on a headcanony kinda path for now as I don't feel ready to commit to a full-fledged fic - thought you could see where I was going with this. There might be a part two coming at some point. please enjoy and let me know how you like this. support and notes are always welcomed. trigger warnings: this is a pretty tamed one, hints of fluff, kinda angsty? mention of injury, mention of drowning, death and grief, no use of y/n - reader isn't described, but she is jessie's mum so, chances are they look similar.
words: 1.9k
masterlist vision song
You’ve heard of the infamous hermit who lived alone, confined on the island a few miles off the coast. The village was full of stories about him, and, as much as you liked to keep yourself away from gossip, knowing better firsthand how harmful it could be, you couldn’t help some of it from sticking. Some called him a madman. Some swore he was so horribly disfigured he couldn’t live in a community, and others said he was shunned because of it. Stories were going around calling him dangerous – for who would be able to live in isolation for years with no good reason but either shame, madness or being on the run?
A whole load of shite-, you often thought to yourself. You could perfectly imagine what would drive someone to decide to leave society. You were tired of it, too, sometimes.
That’s how you brought Jessie up: to always think independently, no matter what others said, to always be unapologetically true to herself, no matter what others’ expectations were. You couldn’t really be surprised to find she was growing into a curious, fearless, smart-as-hell child. And you couldn’t be prouder. You did it. When everyone thought you’d cave under pressure, and all just sat watching, waiting for it to happen, you proved them all wrong. Though that never stopped the gossip from going around the village, no matter how much right you did or how good Jessie was, you were both a single mother and the pictured failure pity-party who was abandoned when pregnant.
Which was exactly why you never believed everything you heard.
Though after both you and Jessie were rescued from certain death, seconds from drowning in the icy-cold, angered North Sea in the middle of a red-warning storm, you still had your doubts when forced to face the hermit himself.
Straight terror, actually.
It didn’t matter he just risked his life to save you and your child.
It may have been the panic mixed with adrenaline of that near-death experience that shook you that much. Or perhaps, it was the innate sacrificing instinct of a protective mother; either way, when you regained consciousness, still wearing soaked-through clothes and being chilled to the bone, you were ready for a fight even when you were far from being in shape for it.
It didn’t help that Jessie was equally shaken, scared and tired. You’ve never seen her withdraw and go so quiet, squeezed behind you.
The man did not say a word to you. In fact, he didn’t even look in your direction. He quietly sat in the room across, turned away from you. Somehow, it seemed that despite the imposed distance and silence, he was still being as hospitable as someone who didn’t speak to a person in years could be. Protective, in a way.
You didn’t sleep even though your sore body desperately needed it. Instead, you spent that first night listening to your child breathing, quietly waiting for both of you to warm back up under the blanket you found covering you.
You learned soon that the old man’s intention wasn’t to hurt you.
He didn’t speak much, but his actions were often louder.
Beginning with the fact that he had no expectation or demand for you to pay back his hospitality.
He let you sleep in his bed, borrow his clothes, eat his food, use his limited resources, and, when it came to it, he took care of your injured ankle. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle as he attentively studied your swollen, aching joint. You barely felt it, and it surprised you. His fingers were cold and soothing. “Do you have medical experience?” You attempted, hopeful to get a word out of him, but not expecting an actual reply. He simply looked at you from under his frowning grey brows. “No.” He said, placing your foot back on the pillow and covering it up with a fresh frozen towel. “If the swelling doesn’t go down, you’ll need meds.” He still added, leaving you wondering.
He may have been quiet. So quiet, in fact, that you didn’t even know his name. But he was undeniably kind.
As soon as Jessie shook the panic off, she found her usual spirit back and tried her hardest to get him to open up, bombarding him with questions and getting quite the attitude when he gave her nothing in return. God only knew how long that kid fantasised about becoming friends with the man in the lighthouse. You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling, watching the way your child’s warmth spread through the excruciating lonely existence of the ageing, looking man. He surely wasn’t used to the company, but he never once dared to be rude to her. Never once hinting her to shut up.
Took you a few days to get back on your feet.
You held a moment of silence for your brother, who drowned in the storm and stacked some stones on the beach in his memory.
You even got used to the dog. Someone could even think you liked the beast. He was gentle and attentive, like his owner, and he responded as easily just to the man’s word. Any command, mostly through body language like a whistle or a snap of his fingers – his words were scarce even for his most loyal, unnamed companion – the dog would blindly follow, sharp as a whip. Though when the animal was allowed to rest, which was most of the time, it revealed itself great company for Jessie.
“People at the village must think we died in the storm,” you observed one morning, not entirely expecting the man to answer you. He sat behind you, drawing the same view of the window you were watching Jessie play with the newly-named Jack-the-dog from. Outside, it was a rare, stunning day. The wind roared, as usual, but the sun was bright and the sky was cloudless. “If not,” you continued, “someone would have come looking for us by now.” You had no family left on the mainland. For Jessie, you were it, and she was all you had. No friends waiting back home. No people who’d notice enough to get concerned.
“Good.” He solemnly said. “Don’t want strangers nosying on my island.”
Somehow, his sudden words and detachment hurt you more than being aware that nobody batted an eye at your disappearance.
“Can’t keep us here forever, you know?” You didn’t look at him but knew his attention was on you, feeling his tired, hazel gaze burning on the nape of your neck. “What happens when you run out of food?” You tried to find reasoning. “Which seems is going to happen sooner rather than later.” You ignored the prolonged silence he fell into. “So?”
“I’ll think about it when the time comes.”
“No. Time is up now.” You faced him. “I’ve lost my brother and my boat; I almost died myself. My child almost died. I’ll be forever grateful to you for what you did for us, but I’d very much like to get back to my life now. And you need food.”
“Can’t let you go.” He sighed, his attention falling on the sketch he was drawing.
“Why?” You waited for an answer that didn’t come. “Are you afraid someone may find out you are hiding here? Well, trust me, I can keep a secret.” Again, he didn’t respond, but you were starting to read his body language well enough to know the stiffening of his squared shoulders meant he was uncomfortable. You struck a nerve. “Please. I don’t even know your name. I can lie. People don’t even like us back at the village; we just have our own quiet life. No one is coming and asking.” She watched avidly the way his stoic features seemed to tremble, only for a moment, though his hesitation was gone with a blink.
“Sorry.” He shrugged, as if that was going to be enough to end the conversation.
“And what do you suggest we do? That we stay trapped here and starve together like a merry family?”
Something in your words got his attention. He raised his hardened gaze on you; something melancholic hid behind his eyes. “I’ll go get food.”
“And that is somehow better than let me do it, how?” You poked him, not backing down. “Listen, let’s make a deal. Both Jessie and I can do with fresh clothes. Let us go, we can pack some stuff, get your usual supply and come right back. If that makes you feel better, we’ll come back. But we need food. You need food.”
“I’m fine. You can have my fill.”
A version of that same conversation happened another couple of times. Once at dinner, when you realised he wasn’t lying and in order to keep feeding both Jessie and you, he cut his own soup portion by three-quarters. And another time in the middle of the night, while you left Jessie sleeping and dared to approach him for some company, hoping to get him to change his mind.
He didn’t trust you enough to let you go with Jessie, and you didn’t want to go without Jessie. Leaving your kid back seemed an awful lot like blackmail and too close to kidnapping, though you hated to consider your time there like you were prisoners.
You quietly argued about it, and then he stopped speaking to you.
In the morning, he got up on his feet, put his heavy coat and hat on, called the dog to guard the door and locked both Jessie and you in the house before you could object. Then he was gone.
He came back with an ample supply. More than you expected, considering his standing order consisted of booze, basic canned foods and porridge for years. The pasta and pasta sauce he brought back looked like the most extravagant food you had ever seen after a week on sole soup and porridge. He also got a bag of sweets for Jessie, which won him a considerable number of points from your kid. Some more first-aid kit supplies and sanitary pads, which was a surprisingly decent gesture from a man who lived alone for years and who suddenly had women in his house. Topping it all off with fresh clothes for both of you.
“Gets cold in here,” he pointed out while you examined the thick wool hat he got for Jessie.
He didn’t say he was sorry for his ways, but you thought no words were needed. You knew his providing was his was to apologise. Even if you thought he certainly needed a communication skill improvement soon, this was good enough. For now.
He was keeping you there, sure. Partially against your will. Partially with reason. And still, there was a splinter of warmth crackling underneath the surface of his hardened shell. You wouldn’t dare to consider it affection, and still, at dinner, you let him cook for you and then you eagerly searched for any hint of emotion he would give while Jessie spoke enthusiastically about the several puffins she saw.
“You can see seals off the coast, sometimes.” He offered, straining himself to make conversation. Jessie beamed in the brightest of smiles, bubbling about wishing to see them. “I’ll let you borrow my binoculars tomorrow.”
You looked at each other and he smiled. It was just a hint, but it was more than enough for you. It was the first time he let himself go, shedding the frigid armour encasing him.
That night was the night you were attacked.
