[ She’s dead, and Jesus, the way Ian’s voice comes out ragged and shaking … it solves the identity of the woman pleading to see Ian’s eyes, the wording so intimate and tender that it had already been narrowed down to only a couple possibilities, even as Mace tried not to listen to it. Tried to afford Ian some sort of privacy, despite the fact that there was none to be found.
I’m sorry, Mace thinks, maybe whispers it. Doesn’t know because he can’t hear it. His hand tightens in Ian’s hair, knows he’s probably messing it up with blood and traces of bark, and doesn’t care. If he had the leverage to curl around Ian right back, wrap both arms around him — cover both Ian's ears with his hands —
But it’s Ian who’s determined to protect him this time, and he's doing it in more ways than he’s aware of, beyond the unflinching grip of his hand across Mace’s eyes.
Mace wouldn’t be able to ignore the whispering and screaming this easily without Ian’s presence centering him again, holding him down as surely as the weight of his body. It wouldn’t have been right away, maybe, but sooner or later it would start getting to him, burrowing into his brain like an evil worm. Cassie's voice, not whispering, but fucking hissing at him. I got rid of it because it was yours.
The sudden echo of footsteps around them have Mace twitching hard under Ian at the restless, implicit threat in them. Back and forth, like a monstrous cat pacing inside a cage. Or outside it, trying to get at the prey inside. And then drowning them out, a voice rising to a distorted, demonic howl —
The hairs on Mace’s neck and arms stand straight up because it’s not human and it’s not even fucking pretending to be, the syllables mutilated and discordant in a way that strikes a nauseating and alien fear in the pit of his stomach. There’s an answering tremor in his body at the way Ian shudders over him, and an ugly, creeping dread starts to coil itself around his lungs.
Then he hears it. Something right in his ear. Ian’s voice, except it’s not — not the thing at the outer edge of the invisible circle around them. It’s Ian, talking to himself, the same words over and over, talking himself into a dizzying circle that sounds increasingly desperate. I just wanna go home, and that —
Pulls Mace right back out of where his mind was headed, and the fury that floods him this time is cold and steadying. What the fuck is he doing? No, really, what the fuck is he — ]
Got my first — my first real six-string, bought it at the five-and-dime. Played it til my fingers bled.
[ Quiet but growing louder with each halting word, he tries to sing where his face is held almost immobile, near the crook of Ian's neck. Tries to do something to help drown out the hell wagons circling them, tighter and tighter.
It probably sounds beyond fucking stupid. The first song that comes to mind, and he's barely holding the tune together through his gritted teeth, because Mace isn't big on music. Mace isn't big on anything that isn't tangible and practical and nailed-the-fuck-down, but this is something that became a part of him when he was small, and the world was still new. ]
Ain't no use complaining when you got a job to do. Spent my evenings down at the drive-in, and that's when I met you. Standing on your mama's porch, you told me that you'd wait forever. And when you held my hand —
[ I knew that it was now or never. He trails off, because there's a sudden dead silence around them, not a thing rustling, nothing creaking. Nothing howling. ]
no subject
I’m sorry, Mace thinks, maybe whispers it. Doesn’t know because he can’t hear it. His hand tightens in Ian’s hair, knows he’s probably messing it up with blood and traces of bark, and doesn’t care. If he had the leverage to curl around Ian right back, wrap both arms around him — cover both Ian's ears with his hands —
But it’s Ian who’s determined to protect him this time, and he's doing it in more ways than he’s aware of, beyond the unflinching grip of his hand across Mace’s eyes.
Mace wouldn’t be able to ignore the whispering and screaming this easily without Ian’s presence centering him again, holding him down as surely as the weight of his body. It wouldn’t have been right away, maybe, but sooner or later it would start getting to him, burrowing into his brain like an evil worm. Cassie's voice, not whispering, but fucking hissing at him. I got rid of it because it was yours.
The sudden echo of footsteps around them have Mace twitching hard under Ian at the restless, implicit threat in them. Back and forth, like a monstrous cat pacing inside a cage. Or outside it, trying to get at the prey inside. And then drowning them out, a voice rising to a distorted, demonic howl —
The hairs on Mace’s neck and arms stand straight up because it’s not human and it’s not even fucking pretending to be, the syllables mutilated and discordant in a way that strikes a nauseating and alien fear in the pit of his stomach. There’s an answering tremor in his body at the way Ian shudders over him, and an ugly, creeping dread starts to coil itself around his lungs.
Then he hears it. Something right in his ear. Ian’s voice, except it’s not — not the thing at the outer edge of the invisible circle around them. It’s Ian, talking to himself, the same words over and over, talking himself into a dizzying circle that sounds increasingly desperate. I just wanna go home, and that —
Pulls Mace right back out of where his mind was headed, and the fury that floods him this time is cold and steadying. What the fuck is he doing? No, really, what the fuck is he — ]
Got my first — my first real six-string, bought it at the five-and-dime. Played it til my fingers bled.
[ Quiet but growing louder with each halting word, he tries to sing where his face is held almost immobile, near the crook of Ian's neck. Tries to do something to help drown out the hell wagons circling them, tighter and tighter.
It probably sounds beyond fucking stupid. The first song that comes to mind, and he's barely holding the tune together through his gritted teeth, because Mace isn't big on music. Mace isn't big on anything that isn't tangible and practical and nailed-the-fuck-down, but this is something that became a part of him when he was small, and the world was still new. ]
Ain't no use complaining when you got a job to do. Spent my evenings down at the drive-in, and that's when I met you. Standing on your mama's porch, you told me that you'd wait forever. And when you held my hand —
[ I knew that it was now or never. He trails off, because there's a sudden dead silence around them, not a thing rustling, nothing creaking. Nothing howling. ]