[ To Ian's credit, none of his tantrum winds up directed at Mace. Granted, it means flat out ignoring him for points instead, with not a sound summoned up in response to the reassurances, the commentary, the apologies. Just shut eyes and a clenched jaw. He knows, he knows none of this is Mace's fault. He knows that he's pissed off. He knows that anything that comes out of is mouth right now is going to be venomous as hell, and he's got enough self-awareness to check it instead.
By the time it's done, his muzzled screaming devolves into choked out, dry sobs. Shaky, jerky, chest-heaving things. Something derived from utter futility, giving up and giving into being consumed by a sensation.
And then minutes pass after Mace finishes, long ticking eternity until the pain tapers down from excruciating to just really fucking painful.
He presses one hand into his eyes. Thumb and forefinger in one socket each, massaging back and forth rhythmically. Rubbing out the dryness that comes after shedding too many tears.
He's soaked through with sweat. Sheets, hair, face. His stomach is a long line of pissed off, shiny red. His chest rises and falls in perfect time, exact seconds like he's counting and manually controlling it.
He doesn't say a fucking word yet.
The tequila didn't do a fucking thing.
Eventually, he breathes out exactly one syllable. There's no weight in his voice, no conviction, it almost sounds robotic. ]
Fuck.
[ That's... about all he's got right now. It's like he's in some post-pain stasis, some vegetative state where he's blank and just riding the wave of post-pain post-adrenaline vacancy. ]
no subject
By the time it's done, his muzzled screaming devolves into choked out, dry sobs. Shaky, jerky, chest-heaving things. Something derived from utter futility, giving up and giving into being consumed by a sensation.
And then minutes pass after Mace finishes, long ticking eternity until the pain tapers down from excruciating to just really fucking painful.
He presses one hand into his eyes. Thumb and forefinger in one socket each, massaging back and forth rhythmically. Rubbing out the dryness that comes after shedding too many tears.
He's soaked through with sweat. Sheets, hair, face. His stomach is a long line of pissed off, shiny red. His chest rises and falls in perfect time, exact seconds like he's counting and manually controlling it.
He doesn't say a fucking word yet.
The tequila didn't do a fucking thing.
Eventually, he breathes out exactly one syllable. There's no weight in his voice, no conviction, it almost sounds robotic. ]
Fuck.
[ That's... about all he's got right now. It's like he's in some post-pain stasis, some vegetative state where he's blank and just riding the wave of post-pain post-adrenaline vacancy. ]