[ That’s true, neither of them are light sleepers — definitely not enough to miss the sounds of a damn dresser being dragged across wood, no matter how badly they’d had the figurative shit kicked out of them the day before. ]
Dunno about that, I slept pretty soundly next to you.
[ Murmured with more humour than he’s feeling on the inside right now, but if Ian’s able to put on a brave face after seeing himself served up on a literal silver platter, the least Mace can do is keep true to their brand, so to speak. Besides, there was something to be said for gallows humour to keep a guy sane.
Finishing up the window panel, Mace sets the hammer down and cracks his knuckles as he gets to his feet, grabbing one of the few perishable items they’d snagged (a clementine) before heading back to where Ian’s currently — huh. Making hand sanitizer, with a book of matches already next to him on the bed. Watching the blue glow as he seats himself on Ian’s other side, Mace thinks he can still feel the tingle of it on his own grazed palms.
Or maybe that’s the phantom sensation of Ian’s palms resting on them, surprisingly warm for a guy who’d just been knocked down with a fresh surgery wound on his chest. ]
You know, Da Vinci had a weird fuckin’ sleep pattern. He’d take twenty minute naps every four hours. Not saying we do that, but … maybe a modified version of it. A full REM cycle every three hours? Or maybe two, and then we swap throughout the night.
[ Said with ulterior motives, because Mace intends to let Ian sleep through his shifts; it’ll delay his healing, for one thing, if he stays up. For another, Mace’s protective nerve is well and truly raw at this point and he’ll probably deal better with staying awake.
Without really thinking about it, he starts peeling the fruit in small, methodical movements, and only offers it to Ian when it’s fully unpeeled. Another habit from his days of dutifully cutting off bread crusts. ]
no subject
Dunno about that, I slept pretty soundly next to you.
[ Murmured with more humour than he’s feeling on the inside right now, but if Ian’s able to put on a brave face after seeing himself served up on a literal silver platter, the least Mace can do is keep true to their brand, so to speak. Besides, there was something to be said for gallows humour to keep a guy sane.
Finishing up the window panel, Mace sets the hammer down and cracks his knuckles as he gets to his feet, grabbing one of the few perishable items they’d snagged (a clementine) before heading back to where Ian’s currently — huh. Making hand sanitizer, with a book of matches already next to him on the bed. Watching the blue glow as he seats himself on Ian’s other side, Mace thinks he can still feel the tingle of it on his own grazed palms.
Or maybe that’s the phantom sensation of Ian’s palms resting on them, surprisingly warm for a guy who’d just been knocked down with a fresh surgery wound on his chest. ]
You know, Da Vinci had a weird fuckin’ sleep pattern. He’d take twenty minute naps every four hours. Not saying we do that, but … maybe a modified version of it. A full REM cycle every three hours? Or maybe two, and then we swap throughout the night.
[ Said with ulterior motives, because Mace intends to let Ian sleep through his shifts; it’ll delay his healing, for one thing, if he stays up. For another, Mace’s protective nerve is well and truly raw at this point and he’ll probably deal better with staying awake.
Without really thinking about it, he starts peeling the fruit in small, methodical movements, and only offers it to Ian when it’s fully unpeeled. Another habit from his days of dutifully cutting off bread crusts. ]