[ Performing the cauterization had been one thing. Nerve-wracking, yes, and the sight and smell and experience of it had left its mark somewhere in Mace, despite the steadiness of his hands and the relative calm of his demeanour throughout.
But it had been a necessary evil — a pain he’d had to inflict, moreover something which Ian had chosen for himself. A choice that he might have felt regret about (because who the fuck wouldn’t regret taking a burning knife-tip to their fresh wound), but a choice all the same. And a smart one, given current events, because there was no way dental-floss stitches would have held properly with the thrusting force of Mace’s full weight on them.
This, though.
This wasn’t a necessity. This wasn’t a choice. This was Mace almost murdering the guy he’d been reassuring and doing his god-damnedest to keep safe this entire time, and the realization of that rankles hard and bitter in his chest. And fuck, but he knows the rationality of it, knows it hadn’t really been Ian his mind had seen there. But that didn’t change the fact that it’d been Mace’s hands around his throat, and the strength in Mace’s hands trying to pull the life out of him.
A lot harder to compartmentalize this.
Feels like a horrible forever before Ian takes his first sputtering gasp of air and in that time he’s able to ascertain that the wound hadn’t sustained any further damage, thank god. That same sense of bleak but powerful gratitude hits him to see Ian's breathing go from a wracking cough to actual breathing, Mace’s eyes dark and anxious as he watches Ian come back to consciousness.
Safe word. ]
Shut up.
[ Hoarse, quiet. There’s no weight behind it, quite literally none. In fact, it sounds a lot more like I’m sorry, guilt twisting both it and Mace’s gut as he slides a hand under Ian’s upper back and gently steers him until his head is positioned in Mace's lap, trying to elevate it. Better than a seated position, which would put more undue pressure on Ian’s chest, his lungs. ]
Christ, I’m so fucking —
[ This isn’t like the cauterization, because an apology here can only mean so much — and in Mace’s head, it doesn’t amount to anything. I’m sorry I tried to kill you, yeah okay. He pinches the bridge of his nose hard, his eyes squeezing shut, before saying in an uncharacteristically empty tone: ]
I swear to God, I thought you were one of those doctors. I thought you were on that — it isn’t here anymore, it's the damn coffee table again, but he had you on this gurney. You were unconscious, and I saw him about to fuckin’ cut into you again, and I lost it.
[ His eyes open again and he looks into Ian’s, honest and intense. ] It wasn't you.
no subject
But it had been a necessary evil — a pain he’d had to inflict, moreover something which Ian had chosen for himself. A choice that he might have felt regret about (because who the fuck wouldn’t regret taking a burning knife-tip to their fresh wound), but a choice all the same. And a smart one, given current events, because there was no way dental-floss stitches would have held properly with the thrusting force of Mace’s full weight on them.
This, though.
This wasn’t a necessity. This wasn’t a choice. This was Mace almost murdering the guy he’d been reassuring and doing his god-damnedest to keep safe this entire time, and the realization of that rankles hard and bitter in his chest. And fuck, but he knows the rationality of it, knows it hadn’t really been Ian his mind had seen there. But that didn’t change the fact that it’d been Mace’s hands around his throat, and the strength in Mace’s hands trying to pull the life out of him.
A lot harder to compartmentalize this.
Feels like a horrible forever before Ian takes his first sputtering gasp of air and in that time he’s able to ascertain that the wound hadn’t sustained any further damage, thank god. That same sense of bleak but powerful gratitude hits him to see Ian's breathing go from a wracking cough to actual breathing, Mace’s eyes dark and anxious as he watches Ian come back to consciousness.
Safe word. ]
Shut up.
[ Hoarse, quiet. There’s no weight behind it, quite literally none. In fact, it sounds a lot more like I’m sorry, guilt twisting both it and Mace’s gut as he slides a hand under Ian’s upper back and gently steers him until his head is positioned in Mace's lap, trying to elevate it. Better than a seated position, which would put more undue pressure on Ian’s chest, his lungs. ]
Christ, I’m so fucking —
[ This isn’t like the cauterization, because an apology here can only mean so much — and in Mace’s head, it doesn’t amount to anything. I’m sorry I tried to kill you, yeah okay. He pinches the bridge of his nose hard, his eyes squeezing shut, before saying in an uncharacteristically empty tone: ]
I swear to God, I thought you were one of those doctors. I thought you were on that — it isn’t here anymore, it's the damn coffee table again, but he had you on this gurney. You were unconscious, and I saw him about to fuckin’ cut into you again, and I lost it.
[ His eyes open again and he looks into Ian’s, honest and intense. ] It wasn't you.