[ It’s plain as day that Ian remembers the nightmare he’d had — the nightmare that both of them might’ve had together, and that doesn’t seem far-fetched at all considering where they are. If the hallucinogens they’re being pumped full of through the vents are enough to make their realities twist until they’re seeing fucked up shit in the waking world, it’s entirely possible they’re being shown similar dreams as well.
It’s also plain to see that he’s not going to be telling Mace any of it; it’s in the way his gaze lowers, in the subtle shake of his head, back and forth. His voice. Doesn't matter.
The warmth of his hand disappears from Mace’s wrist and in the next second, Ian’s directing their conversation to a different direction. Mace takes in his expression, and then takes his cue from him. At least for the time being. ]
It really did, huh.
[ Musingly, as Ian lowers himself back down into the mattress, Mace automatically sliding his right hand underneath his back to help ease him down, mindful of the still-healing wound going down his chest.
He's not gonna be able to forget the look of mingled horror and incomprehension in Ian’s face in a hurry. But Ian’s right; they made it through the night, and that means nailing the doors and window down gave them some semblance of safety.
Which is an encouraging thought, and Mace wipes the back of his bruised hand across his face, getting rid of the last of the moisture there, before leaning over Ian’s face for a careful, lingering kiss to the corner of his lips. Something casual but intimate, in the sort of way that usually comes with weeks of knowing somebody else, instead of the intense double-time bonding they’ve been through.
It’s their first morning after. Mace isn’t exactly a stickler for sentimentality, but he feels something unhappy smoulder in his chest at the thought of being unable to provide Ian something better than a godawful nightmare. They should be having their round two right about now. Something slow and hot to tug Ian sweetly out of sleep, instead of this.
Well, he can feed him, at the very least. ]
Take it easy for a bit, lemme get you something.
[ They’ve still got the little burner and plate that Ian had made the before, the matches ready, and Mace sets about heating up breakfast. Until they can venture back to the kitchen, it looks like it’ll have to be soup again, chicken this time — but they’ve got bread, too, and cheese. And powdered coffee.
Once he's done, he makes a spread of it on makeshift tray from the previous night, and brings it over. Naked, because he hadn't bothered to put the towel back on, but hopefully that's a plus in Ian's book. Softly, in case he's dozed off again: ]
no subject
It’s also plain to see that he’s not going to be telling Mace any of it; it’s in the way his gaze lowers, in the subtle shake of his head, back and forth. His voice. Doesn't matter.
The warmth of his hand disappears from Mace’s wrist and in the next second, Ian’s directing their conversation to a different direction. Mace takes in his expression, and then takes his cue from him. At least for the time being. ]
It really did, huh.
[ Musingly, as Ian lowers himself back down into the mattress, Mace automatically sliding his right hand underneath his back to help ease him down, mindful of the still-healing wound going down his chest.
He's not gonna be able to forget the look of mingled horror and incomprehension in Ian’s face in a hurry. But Ian’s right; they made it through the night, and that means nailing the doors and window down gave them some semblance of safety.
Which is an encouraging thought, and Mace wipes the back of his bruised hand across his face, getting rid of the last of the moisture there, before leaning over Ian’s face for a careful, lingering kiss to the corner of his lips. Something casual but intimate, in the sort of way that usually comes with weeks of knowing somebody else, instead of the intense double-time bonding they’ve been through.
It’s their first morning after. Mace isn’t exactly a stickler for sentimentality, but he feels something unhappy smoulder in his chest at the thought of being unable to provide Ian something better than a godawful nightmare. They should be having their round two right about now. Something slow and hot to tug Ian sweetly out of sleep, instead of this.
Well, he can feed him, at the very least. ]
Take it easy for a bit, lemme get you something.
[ They’ve still got the little burner and plate that Ian had made the before, the matches ready, and Mace sets about heating up breakfast. Until they can venture back to the kitchen, it looks like it’ll have to be soup again, chicken this time — but they’ve got bread, too, and cheese. And powdered coffee.
Once he's done, he makes a spread of it on makeshift tray from the previous night, and brings it over. Naked, because he hadn't bothered to put the towel back on, but hopefully that's a plus in Ian's book. Softly, in case he's dozed off again: ]
Breakfast.