[ For a moment, with the heavy rise and fall of Ian’s chest, the way a tremor is going through his body still despite the fact that the knife is gone, Mace worries if he’s gonna go into some sort of breathing attack, something Mace can’t help him with if his own body turns against itself.
What happens instead is better and worse. Better because thank fuck, it’s not that. Worse, because now Ian’s able to verbalize his pain and it’s horrible to witness. Witness and not be able to do a goddamn thing to help, witness and know that he’s the sonuvabitch inflicting it on the guy in the first place.
Agreeing, still in that low, placating tone: ]
I know. I know. It’s absolute fuckin’ bullshit. I’m —
[ And then the mouth-guard goes flying out of Ian’s hand, hitting the far wall with a muted thwack, and Mace stops abruptly.
No, but he gets it, he really fucking does. The fact that Ian’s still conscious, the fact that he’s got words to put together after all that unbearable pain, is a feat in and of itself. Throwing the mouth-guard? Is honestly the least he could be doing right now, including the verbal, uncontrollable rage. What the fuck else is the guy gonna do? He’s being slowly, carefully burned right along a fresh wound.
Mace puts down the knife on the nightstand, careful not to let the blade touch the wood so as to stay free of contamination, and then goes over to where the mouth-guard is on the floor. Picks it up, takes it to the bathroom, gives it and his hands a good scrub down before bringing it back out, placing it in Ian’s palm for him to put it back into his mouth. ]
You are a crazy fucking teacher.
[ He confirms, steady and even as he picks the knife back up again, focusing his attention back to the wound. About seventy-five percent of it is a charred, angry line, the remaining part bloody but mercifully not nearly as prone to opening up as it had been before, closer together.
He holds the split skin together again with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, lifting the knife away from the candle and bringing it back to Ian’s lower abdomen. ]
And I am so fucking sorry for this.
[ Spoken right before he begins the last stretch, again steeling himself to work his way through with uninterrupted, laser-point focus, not stopping this time until he’s all the way done and the knife is put away again. He takes a step back with a deep, almost shuddering breath, observing his work to make sure there’s no fuck-ups before looking Ian in the face again.
Fuck. Jesus god. It’s over. Bordering on ragged, his composure finally straining now that they’ve gotten through the worst of it: ]
It’s done, buddy. [ A dry, tacky swallow. ] The motherfucker who sent us here, I hope he goes straight to hell.
no subject
What happens instead is better and worse. Better because thank fuck, it’s not that. Worse, because now Ian’s able to verbalize his pain and it’s horrible to witness. Witness and not be able to do a goddamn thing to help, witness and know that he’s the sonuvabitch inflicting it on the guy in the first place.
Agreeing, still in that low, placating tone: ]
I know. I know. It’s absolute fuckin’ bullshit. I’m —
[ And then the mouth-guard goes flying out of Ian’s hand, hitting the far wall with a muted thwack, and Mace stops abruptly.
No, but he gets it, he really fucking does. The fact that Ian’s still conscious, the fact that he’s got words to put together after all that unbearable pain, is a feat in and of itself. Throwing the mouth-guard? Is honestly the least he could be doing right now, including the verbal, uncontrollable rage. What the fuck else is the guy gonna do? He’s being slowly, carefully burned right along a fresh wound.
Mace puts down the knife on the nightstand, careful not to let the blade touch the wood so as to stay free of contamination, and then goes over to where the mouth-guard is on the floor. Picks it up, takes it to the bathroom, gives it and his hands a good scrub down before bringing it back out, placing it in Ian’s palm for him to put it back into his mouth. ]
You are a crazy fucking teacher.
[ He confirms, steady and even as he picks the knife back up again, focusing his attention back to the wound. About seventy-five percent of it is a charred, angry line, the remaining part bloody but mercifully not nearly as prone to opening up as it had been before, closer together.
He holds the split skin together again with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, lifting the knife away from the candle and bringing it back to Ian’s lower abdomen. ]
And I am so fucking sorry for this.
[ Spoken right before he begins the last stretch, again steeling himself to work his way through with uninterrupted, laser-point focus, not stopping this time until he’s all the way done and the knife is put away again. He takes a step back with a deep, almost shuddering breath, observing his work to make sure there’s no fuck-ups before looking Ian in the face again.
Fuck. Jesus god. It’s over. Bordering on ragged, his composure finally straining now that they’ve gotten through the worst of it: ]
It’s done, buddy. [ A dry, tacky swallow. ] The motherfucker who sent us here, I hope he goes straight to hell.