[ Every word out of Ian’s mouth is a reminder of what had just gone down, and Mace finds that it’s harder to put something like this out of his mind. And if it’s a problem right now, it’s only gonna get worse tomorrow when the reddened imprints of his fingers start to smudge into something blue-black and unmistakeable. It’ll be days before they fade, and even longer before Mace’ll be able to stop thinking about it.
Not how I like to be choked.
But Ian’s saying something else right now, and Mace tears his thoughts away from the way his voice is hitching, the throaty rasp of it, rubbing his knuckles into the palm of his other hand to distract himself. Something they can feel. Right. ]
Make a knife, and if I so much as look at you funny ...
[ Self-deprecating humour isn’t one of his strengths, better suited as he is for irreverence and the odd, terrible pun; it comes out choppy and far too serious, trails off into nothing before he changes gears. ]
Anyway, we can have something like a s—
[ Secret handshake is what he’d been about to say, but if they’re being listened in on, which is pretty much a certainty at this point …
Mace's eyes, which had hitherto been mostly fixed on a nebulous point around Ian’s shoulders as he’d maneuvered himself from a supine position to a reclining one, finally meet his. Only a trace of darkness there now, because nothing helps him focus like a plan being drafted into action.
He mouths the words slowly, and then follows it up with a meaningful nod, as if to ask: get it? And immediately after: ]
Could be a reference to something only you or I would know about.
[ With a vague gesture of one of his hands scrawling something into the palm of the other, a silent request for Ian to make them some writing tools. ]
no subject
Not how I like to be choked.
But Ian’s saying something else right now, and Mace tears his thoughts away from the way his voice is hitching, the throaty rasp of it, rubbing his knuckles into the palm of his other hand to distract himself. Something they can feel. Right. ]
Make a knife, and if I so much as look at you funny ...
[ Self-deprecating humour isn’t one of his strengths, better suited as he is for irreverence and the odd, terrible pun; it comes out choppy and far too serious, trails off into nothing before he changes gears. ]
Anyway, we can have something like a s—
[ Secret handshake is what he’d been about to say, but if they’re being listened in on, which is pretty much a certainty at this point …
Mace's eyes, which had hitherto been mostly fixed on a nebulous point around Ian’s shoulders as he’d maneuvered himself from a supine position to a reclining one, finally meet his. Only a trace of darkness there now, because nothing helps him focus like a plan being drafted into action.
He mouths the words slowly, and then follows it up with a meaningful nod, as if to ask: get it? And immediately after: ]
Could be a reference to something only you or I would know about.
[ With a vague gesture of one of his hands scrawling something into the palm of the other, a silent request for Ian to make them some writing tools. ]