[ His first thought is: they’re being attacked, and his eyes immediately tear away from the fear in Ian’s tear-streaked face to the rest of the bedroom, eyes scanning the emptiness rapidly even as he throws off the sheets and swings his legs over to the floor.
Nothing. No one. They’re alone, they’re. Safe. Fine. Except for the rapid rise and fall of Ian’s chest, the way he’s sucking in air like he’s going into a panic attack, and Mace’s attention is right back on him in the next second. ]
Hey, hey, Ian, calm — Ian. I’m here.
[ Back on the bed now, one knee dipping into the mattress as he moves toward Ian, slow and with one hand outstretched placatingly. The towel around his waist had fallen off some time in the night, but he doesn’t even notice it, too wrapped up in the pallor of Ian’s face, the unmistakeable terror in his eyes.
It hadn’t been just him, then. Both of them. Crying. A nightmare? Had to be, had to — fuck, why can’t he remember? Mace has never particularly wanted to be able to remember his dreams, but something tells him this hadn’t been a normal one, even for a nightmare. And if he knew, then he could say something. Do something, other than reach out to touch Ian’s face in reassurance, or at least try to.
His hand freezes before it gets there, though, and by the faint, greyish light that’s in the room now, he can see his left hand’s swollen and bruised, an indent at the side of his palm like he’d —
Smashed it into the corner of the night table. What the fuck kind of nightmare did he — did they — just have? ]
no subject
Nothing. No one. They’re alone, they’re. Safe. Fine. Except for the rapid rise and fall of Ian’s chest, the way he’s sucking in air like he’s going into a panic attack, and Mace’s attention is right back on him in the next second. ]
Hey, hey, Ian, calm — Ian. I’m here.
[ Back on the bed now, one knee dipping into the mattress as he moves toward Ian, slow and with one hand outstretched placatingly. The towel around his waist had fallen off some time in the night, but he doesn’t even notice it, too wrapped up in the pallor of Ian’s face, the unmistakeable terror in his eyes.
It hadn’t been just him, then. Both of them. Crying. A nightmare? Had to be, had to — fuck, why can’t he remember? Mace has never particularly wanted to be able to remember his dreams, but something tells him this hadn’t been a normal one, even for a nightmare. And if he knew, then he could say something. Do something, other than reach out to touch Ian’s face in reassurance, or at least try to.
His hand freezes before it gets there, though, and by the faint, greyish light that’s in the room now, he can see his left hand’s swollen and bruised, an indent at the side of his palm like he’d —
Smashed it into the corner of the night table. What the fuck kind of nightmare did he — did they — just have? ]