[ Probably for the best that Mace is focused on adjusting his shoulder, because if he’d been mystified before, that laughing fit would’ve bamboozled the hell out of him. As it is, Mace’s fingers land somewhere in the region of Ian’s knee, and even from there, he can feel tiny tremors pass through, like Ian’s shuddering.
It makes him look up sharply, and it's just in time to see Ian turn back around with a hand raised to his lips, his eyes —
Huh.
For a moment, Mace wonders if maybe there’s a joke he’s not quite getting. Something on his face? Besides the shiner? It gets a quizzical frown out of him as Ian hands him back the hammer, but there’s no explanation forthcoming, considering neither of ‘em can hear each other — just warm fingertips against his chest, and a familiar blue glow that Mace hadn’t counted on ever seeing again.
The thought sobers him, his eyes on the shirt knitting itself into existence, almost missing the look that Ian sends toward his feet. Then he’s shrugging off the robe in the next second and letting it pool around his waist, reaching into the pocket as he does so.
Pulls out that lonely packet of instant coffee. Bright red, in a world of brown and grey, and there’s something incredibly soft around the corners of his mouth and his downcast eyes as he gently grabs Ian’s free hand, placing the packet on the palm before curling Ian’s fingers around it with his own.
Squeezes down just a little, rubbing his thumb over the back of Ian’s knuckles.
And then he’s sliding the shirt on, a bit awkward because of his shoulder, before using the hammer to scrawl a word into the soil next to them: socks. Wiggles his toes pointedly after the fact. He wears elevens, but he can't imagine shoes will be easy to make. Better they find some sort of shelter first. ]
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It makes him look up sharply, and it's just in time to see Ian turn back around with a hand raised to his lips, his eyes —
Huh.
For a moment, Mace wonders if maybe there’s a joke he’s not quite getting. Something on his face? Besides the shiner? It gets a quizzical frown out of him as Ian hands him back the hammer, but there’s no explanation forthcoming, considering neither of ‘em can hear each other — just warm fingertips against his chest, and a familiar blue glow that Mace hadn’t counted on ever seeing again.
The thought sobers him, his eyes on the shirt knitting itself into existence, almost missing the look that Ian sends toward his feet. Then he’s shrugging off the robe in the next second and letting it pool around his waist, reaching into the pocket as he does so.
Pulls out that lonely packet of instant coffee. Bright red, in a world of brown and grey, and there’s something incredibly soft around the corners of his mouth and his downcast eyes as he gently grabs Ian’s free hand, placing the packet on the palm before curling Ian’s fingers around it with his own.
Squeezes down just a little, rubbing his thumb over the back of Ian’s knuckles.
And then he’s sliding the shirt on, a bit awkward because of his shoulder, before using the hammer to scrawl a word into the soil next to them: socks. Wiggles his toes pointedly after the fact. He wears elevens, but he can't imagine shoes will be easy to make. Better they find some sort of shelter first. ]