[ There was a movie, from the same era as the others they’ve talked about: the story of a bodyguard falling for his charge, and vice versa. Happened within a matter of days — and Mace thinks that his earlier comment about not being a prince, but a bodyguard instead, was right on the money.
Hey, Hollywood had to get their ideas from somewhere, right? It’s not impossible. And there’s something about being so completely focused on someone — of spending hours on end with nothing but their safety on the forefront of your mind, protecting them first with weapons and then your body, flesh tied to flesh and the mind following suit.
The intimacy of knowing what they sounded like in the throes of red-hot agony and white-hot pleasure, both inflicted by your own two hands —
Ian takes his hand, and the darkness in front of them loses all meaning and horror. He can sense something in the emptiness of the cabin around them, and it loses any element of trepidation for Mace. They can't have this. ]
They look anywhere near your dick, I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em in my sleep.
[ Spoken with dead-seriousness, as he takes the remaining slat and nails, picks up the hammer from where he’d left it, and goes to work hammering the door shut right in his little towel-toga.
There’s definitely a world of difference between someone managing to push a dresser out of the way, and manually tearing off a barrier; besides, it’ll give them some measure of peace, anyway. The placebo effect exists for a reason, after all, and if they’ve only got one more night of sleep ahead of them — at least it’ll be a sounder one.
By the time he crawls into bed next to Ian, he’s finished doing the last perimeter check of the night, and the mattress is devoid of anything but Ian’s long, robed limbs and the sheets. With the added protection of the blankets around him, from what Mace can feel as he slides himself underneath them too.
The room around them is dark, almost pitch black because there isn’t even the light from underneath the bedroom door anymore, and somehow it feels slightly colder. A chill hanging in the air that hadn’t been there before.
Mace wordlessly draws as close as he can to Ian’s side, and after a beat, lays an arm carefully across his upper body. It’s so vastly different from the way they’d slept the night before. Ian with his fresh, charred wound, and Mace laying flat on his back like he was back in an army regulation sleeping bag. Separate from each other, a formality brought about through pain. Now they're practically nestled together.
In the dark, his hand finds the back of Ian’s damp hair, and he runs his fingers through it slow and lulling. ]
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Hey, Hollywood had to get their ideas from somewhere, right? It’s not impossible. And there’s something about being so completely focused on someone — of spending hours on end with nothing but their safety on the forefront of your mind, protecting them first with weapons and then your body, flesh tied to flesh and the mind following suit.
The intimacy of knowing what they sounded like in the throes of red-hot agony and white-hot pleasure, both inflicted by your own two hands —
Ian takes his hand, and the darkness in front of them loses all meaning and horror. He can sense something in the emptiness of the cabin around them, and it loses any element of trepidation for Mace. They can't have this. ]
They look anywhere near your dick, I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em in my sleep.
[ Spoken with dead-seriousness, as he takes the remaining slat and nails, picks up the hammer from where he’d left it, and goes to work hammering the door shut right in his little towel-toga.
There’s definitely a world of difference between someone managing to push a dresser out of the way, and manually tearing off a barrier; besides, it’ll give them some measure of peace, anyway. The placebo effect exists for a reason, after all, and if they’ve only got one more night of sleep ahead of them — at least it’ll be a sounder one.
By the time he crawls into bed next to Ian, he’s finished doing the last perimeter check of the night, and the mattress is devoid of anything but Ian’s long, robed limbs and the sheets. With the added protection of the blankets around him, from what Mace can feel as he slides himself underneath them too.
The room around them is dark, almost pitch black because there isn’t even the light from underneath the bedroom door anymore, and somehow it feels slightly colder. A chill hanging in the air that hadn’t been there before.
Mace wordlessly draws as close as he can to Ian’s side, and after a beat, lays an arm carefully across his upper body. It’s so vastly different from the way they’d slept the night before. Ian with his fresh, charred wound, and Mace laying flat on his back like he was back in an army regulation sleeping bag. Separate from each other, a formality brought about through pain. Now they're practically nestled together.
In the dark, his hand finds the back of Ian’s damp hair, and he runs his fingers through it slow and lulling. ]