[ Whatever’s coming his way, the speed’s picking up in a way that has Mace suddenly doubting that it’s Ian. The unease of that thought cuts through the anger swirling deep in his chest, through the echoing in ears from the voices he’s trying his damnedest to ignore, and it has him suddenly straining to see it through the fog.
The branches across from him start moving, and he knows it’s only a matter of minutes. Something shapeless wavers in the distance behind the trees, and —
And then a warm, human grip wraps around the foot that’s lowest on the branch, and Mace doesn’t even get the chance to yell before he’s being pulled down like a bunch of grapes.
Second time he’s been grabbed by the ankle in as many hours, but it’s not the yanking that hurts him this time — it’s his own damn self, the wood tearing into the flesh of one hand as it rips free of the branch through sheer momentum. The hammer’s still in the other, and he swings it out in a wild attempt to catch himself on something as he’s wrenched down.
Ends up cutting into the tree instead with the sharp end, and there’s a hideous, grating pressure on his shoulder as the hammer drags along the trunk on his way down, pulls it right out of its socket. And that’s what gets a sound out of him, finally; raw and agonized, muffled in his throat as a body clambers over him, his own struggling back and forth underneath the weight of it before he realizes that it's —
Jesus Christ.
It’s Ian. Except.
Shut your eyes, and the blind, animal terror in Ian’s voice somehow manages to pierce even the white-hot veil of pain clouding his head. Nothing like he’s ever heard out of him before; it’s a fear that calls to something instinctive and primeval in his hindbrain. Evolutionary memories of predators stalking the mouth of the cave, just beyond the firelight. The worst kind of danger.
It’s contagious; his eyes are squeezing shut even before Ian’s hand fully covers them, and Mace tenses up beneath him, gritting his mouth closed for good measure, every sense on red-alert despite the pain radiating out of his face, his hand, his shoulder.
Everything’s gone quiet. His heart thuds hard and quick in the silence, and he can feel Ian’s heartbeat pressed against his — can’t even fully feel the relief that comes from that sensation because whatever the fuck it was, it’d scared Ian bad enough for him to be reduced to this. Had it hurt him? ]
Ian? [ Tightly and through his teeth, without his lips even moving; low as he can get it without whispering, because whispers carry. ]
no subject
The branches across from him start moving, and he knows it’s only a matter of minutes. Something shapeless wavers in the distance behind the trees, and —
And then a warm, human grip wraps around the foot that’s lowest on the branch, and Mace doesn’t even get the chance to yell before he’s being pulled down like a bunch of grapes.
Second time he’s been grabbed by the ankle in as many hours, but it’s not the yanking that hurts him this time — it’s his own damn self, the wood tearing into the flesh of one hand as it rips free of the branch through sheer momentum. The hammer’s still in the other, and he swings it out in a wild attempt to catch himself on something as he’s wrenched down.
Ends up cutting into the tree instead with the sharp end, and there’s a hideous, grating pressure on his shoulder as the hammer drags along the trunk on his way down, pulls it right out of its socket. And that’s what gets a sound out of him, finally; raw and agonized, muffled in his throat as a body clambers over him, his own struggling back and forth underneath the weight of it before he realizes that it's —
Jesus Christ.
It’s Ian. Except.
Shut your eyes, and the blind, animal terror in Ian’s voice somehow manages to pierce even the white-hot veil of pain clouding his head. Nothing like he’s ever heard out of him before; it’s a fear that calls to something instinctive and primeval in his hindbrain. Evolutionary memories of predators stalking the mouth of the cave, just beyond the firelight. The worst kind of danger.
It’s contagious; his eyes are squeezing shut even before Ian’s hand fully covers them, and Mace tenses up beneath him, gritting his mouth closed for good measure, every sense on red-alert despite the pain radiating out of his face, his hand, his shoulder.
Everything’s gone quiet. His heart thuds hard and quick in the silence, and he can feel Ian’s heartbeat pressed against his — can’t even fully feel the relief that comes from that sensation because whatever the fuck it was, it’d scared Ian bad enough for him to be reduced to this. Had it hurt him? ]
Ian? [ Tightly and through his teeth, without his lips even moving; low as he can get it without whispering, because whispers carry. ]