[ Then again, maybe Mace would’ve understood if he’d seen the whole thing — would have intuited the note of hysteria even through the silence, in the way Ian’s shoulders moved, uncontrollable and like a man pushed past his breaking point. He’d understand because god, he’s right there with you, Ian. The entire bullshit from start to finish has been fucked.
Still, seeing the whole thing — it would've made him want to handle Ian a bit softer, a bit more careful. Probably would've had him initiating the kiss he’s being pulled into right now. But it’s Ian who’s surging forward and Mace makes a little grunt of surprise and delight that neither of them can hear as he drops the hammer again in favour of putting both arms around him.
His grip is clumsier than it was in the shower, weakened compared to when he’d carried Ian across the threshold of the bedroom that first night. But there’s an urgency to the way his lips move against Ian’s, the kiss going fierce immediately; teeth scraping lip, the faint taste of somebody’s blood in somebody else’s mouth, Mace using his tongue this way to say all the things he can’t otherwise.
I got you, and thank fuck you’re okay, and most of all, a swell of emotion that he doesn’t have the words for. Maybe it’s just as well that nothing he says can be heard.
He knows it isn’t safe — they could still be being watched, they should be on their feet, hyperaware of their surroundings and searching out the nearest place to hide that wasn’t so much out in the open. But the full weight of what they’ve just gone through is starting to press down on his shoulders; the kind of shit they had to listen to, the way it felt like hell had cracked open right underneath their feet, all the skeletons in their closet tumbling out in front of the other guy.
They might as well take a second to process it now. And why not this way?
He draws back just enough to trace Ian’s lower lip with one busted knuckle. Looks him in the eye and mouths slowly: Mon-te-zu-ma.
Make ‘em a drink when they get somewhere safe, huh? ]
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Still, seeing the whole thing — it would've made him want to handle Ian a bit softer, a bit more careful. Probably would've had him initiating the kiss he’s being pulled into right now. But it’s Ian who’s surging forward and Mace makes a little grunt of surprise and delight that neither of them can hear as he drops the hammer again in favour of putting both arms around him.
His grip is clumsier than it was in the shower, weakened compared to when he’d carried Ian across the threshold of the bedroom that first night. But there’s an urgency to the way his lips move against Ian’s, the kiss going fierce immediately; teeth scraping lip, the faint taste of somebody’s blood in somebody else’s mouth, Mace using his tongue this way to say all the things he can’t otherwise.
I got you, and thank fuck you’re okay, and most of all, a swell of emotion that he doesn’t have the words for. Maybe it’s just as well that nothing he says can be heard.
He knows it isn’t safe — they could still be being watched, they should be on their feet, hyperaware of their surroundings and searching out the nearest place to hide that wasn’t so much out in the open. But the full weight of what they’ve just gone through is starting to press down on his shoulders; the kind of shit they had to listen to, the way it felt like hell had cracked open right underneath their feet, all the skeletons in their closet tumbling out in front of the other guy.
They might as well take a second to process it now. And why not this way?
He draws back just enough to trace Ian’s lower lip with one busted knuckle. Looks him in the eye and mouths slowly: Mon-te-zu-ma.
Make ‘em a drink when they get somewhere safe, huh? ]