[ Thing is, Mace wouldn’t be able to identify that as selfishness even if he tried. Even if they didn’t have this between them — even if he weren’t so hopelessly compromised the way he is now — just the fact that Ian’s linking his own pain to Mace’s existence is something that could not translate as selfish to him.
But he can see the effect all of this is having on Ian now, see it in his eyes when he drops his gaze, in the way he has to swallow and lick his lips before he speaks, and in the way his voice goes suddenly hoarse.
Okay. Okay, it’s too much, that’s all right. ]
Yeah, we can.
[ Agreeably, because Ian’s right; all of this is getting to him in a way that needs some sleep to balance it out, or at least an attempt at sleep. Draws back just enough so that he isn’t so much in Ian’s immediate space, but not far enough that it feels sudden and empty. He doesn’t want to let go of Ian’s waist, feels like his arm belongs there — but reluctantly pulls it back so that he can finish washing the rest of Ian’s upper body, fingers pressing in firm and soothing, working out whatever kinks he can find.
One palm rests briefly over Ian's left breast, and then he's lathering himself up right after in quick, perfunctory scrubs. Puts the soap into Ian’s hand again in case he wants it for anything else while Mace rinses himself off.
The air in the bathroom after he turns the water off is heavy with more than just the moisture, and Mace gives Ian a searching glance before ducking away into the laundry for something to dry them with. Silence something he’s used to, comfortable with, and confronted with having to fill it — he’s a little out of his element.
He’s not normally as talkative as he’s been with Ian the last few hours.
A minute later, he reemerges with the sole bathrobe he’d found hanging there earlier, and a towel. Wraps Ian up in the robe, mainly because it’s the quickest way to get him dried and also because there’s something about the way he looks — open, bare, forlorn — that makes Mace want to bundle him up and hide him away. Then he slings the towel around his own waist, saying quietly: ]
There’s somebody's clothes in the hamper, but.
[ They can wear them in the morning, when (if) they wake up. Or he can grab them now, if Ian wants, but sleeping in the almost-nude isn't something Mace minds. He holds out his hand again, nodding his head toward the bedroom outside. ]
no subject
But he can see the effect all of this is having on Ian now, see it in his eyes when he drops his gaze, in the way he has to swallow and lick his lips before he speaks, and in the way his voice goes suddenly hoarse.
Okay. Okay, it’s too much, that’s all right. ]
Yeah, we can.
[ Agreeably, because Ian’s right; all of this is getting to him in a way that needs some sleep to balance it out, or at least an attempt at sleep. Draws back just enough so that he isn’t so much in Ian’s immediate space, but not far enough that it feels sudden and empty. He doesn’t want to let go of Ian’s waist, feels like his arm belongs there — but reluctantly pulls it back so that he can finish washing the rest of Ian’s upper body, fingers pressing in firm and soothing, working out whatever kinks he can find.
One palm rests briefly over Ian's left breast, and then he's lathering himself up right after in quick, perfunctory scrubs. Puts the soap into Ian’s hand again in case he wants it for anything else while Mace rinses himself off.
The air in the bathroom after he turns the water off is heavy with more than just the moisture, and Mace gives Ian a searching glance before ducking away into the laundry for something to dry them with. Silence something he’s used to, comfortable with, and confronted with having to fill it — he’s a little out of his element.
He’s not normally as talkative as he’s been with Ian the last few hours.
A minute later, he reemerges with the sole bathrobe he’d found hanging there earlier, and a towel. Wraps Ian up in the robe, mainly because it’s the quickest way to get him dried and also because there’s something about the way he looks — open, bare, forlorn — that makes Mace want to bundle him up and hide him away. Then he slings the towel around his own waist, saying quietly: ]
There’s somebody's clothes in the hamper, but.
[ They can wear them in the morning, when (if) they wake up. Or he can grab them now, if Ian wants, but sleeping in the almost-nude isn't something Mace minds. He holds out his hand again, nodding his head toward the bedroom outside. ]