[ Ian's not there. Just the empty bedroom in front of him, peaceful and bloodless — hell, even half of the bed is covered in dust, undisturbed as though he'd never lain down next to Ian the night before which makes no fucking sense.
None of this does.
His heartbeat slowing down from where it had ratcheted up to a racehorse's pace, Mace pulls his head back and then breaks the rest of the window with the heel of his shoe this time, crawling through one-handed because the other's cut and bleeding.
Off to the side, the bedroom door is wide open, and the dresser — ]
God, no.
[ Not terrified this time, not a shout so much as it is a growl, but still laced with dread, because this meant Ian had fucking gotten in to safety, going so far as to block the entrance ... and then had promptly thrown himself right back out.
Out of the frying pan, onto the counter top, and then into the fire? What the hell?
... Unless. He hadn't gone willingly, he'd been taken, but there's no signs of a struggle even all the way out into the empty hallway that Mace can see now. He shifts the cutter to his free, uninjured hand and resists the urge to call out into the hallway, keeping his footfalls light, his back to the wall.
Nothing stirs. Mace makes it all the way down the hall, past the second bedroom, through the kitchen, and when he rounds that last corner into the living room it's like he's in a different fucking house altogether.
There's blood everywhere. The sofas are fucking gone, and in the center of the room is — ]
Ian.
[ A faint, disbelieving murmur. It's the scene from the bedroom all over again except this time, there's no bed. Only a gurney, splattered with blood, and Ian isn't held down by anything except straps at his sternum and at his hips. His arms are cut up and so are his legs, and his is middle open and exposed and laid vulnerable to the
motherfucking
white-coat
raising a scalpel right above it. Right above the seared wound going down his chest, clearly intending to slice it right back open. ]
Son of a bitch.
[ The snarl is out before Mace can think twice, his body flooding with rage and adrenaline; he drops the fucking cutter and just lunges bodily at the doctor, twisting on the way down so that they hit the ground instead of the gurney, his hands going for a raw-skinned throat. ]
no subject
None of this does.
His heartbeat slowing down from where it had ratcheted up to a racehorse's pace, Mace pulls his head back and then breaks the rest of the window with the heel of his shoe this time, crawling through one-handed because the other's cut and bleeding.
Off to the side, the bedroom door is wide open, and the dresser — ]
God, no.
[ Not terrified this time, not a shout so much as it is a growl, but still laced with dread, because this meant Ian had fucking gotten in to safety, going so far as to block the entrance ... and then had promptly thrown himself right back out.
Out of the frying pan, onto the counter top, and then into the fire? What the hell?
... Unless. He hadn't gone willingly, he'd been taken, but there's no signs of a struggle even all the way out into the empty hallway that Mace can see now. He shifts the cutter to his free, uninjured hand and resists the urge to call out into the hallway, keeping his footfalls light, his back to the wall.
Nothing stirs. Mace makes it all the way down the hall, past the second bedroom, through the kitchen, and when he rounds that last corner into the living room it's like he's in a different fucking house altogether.
There's blood everywhere. The sofas are fucking gone, and in the center of the room is — ]
Ian.
[ A faint, disbelieving murmur. It's the scene from the bedroom all over again except this time, there's no bed. Only a gurney, splattered with blood, and Ian isn't held down by anything except straps at his sternum and at his hips. His arms are cut up and so are his legs, and his is middle open and exposed and laid vulnerable to the
motherfucking
white-coat
raising a scalpel right above it. Right above the seared wound going down his chest, clearly intending to slice it right back open. ]
Son of a bitch.
[ The snarl is out before Mace can think twice, his body flooding with rage and adrenaline; he drops the fucking cutter and just lunges bodily at the doctor, twisting on the way down so that they hit the ground instead of the gurney, his hands going for a raw-skinned throat. ]