[ One minute they’re both raised up on their knees, trying to get a better look at the rest of the cave with whatever light they can muster (or so Mace thinks) — the next, Ian’s all but hauling him back, until they’re hitting the wall with their backs flat against it, unable to physically go any further. Scuttling backward like some strange fleshy crab.
The only thing that keeps Mace from getting even briefly lost in the sudden, ugly flood of fear in his veins is the sound of Ian’s breathing, ratcheting up from normal to something staccato and loud and gasping, a precursor to what sounds like some kind of an attack. He sounds terrified. Fuck. And Mace can’t even —
Mace firmly shakes the hold they’ve got on each other, a bracing rattle of fingers, his eyes still straining to see ahead of them despite how badly he wants to look at Ian again, help him, calm him down. Quietly: ]
Stay with me. I need you.
[ Okay. Okay, fuck. Think, Mace. They’ve got the knife. He has the matches, pocketed them right before that goddamn hiss that made the hair at the back of his neck stand up — he readjusts his grip on Ian, making up his mind. His peripheral vision able to tell him by the blue glow that Ian’s still right next to him, breathing fast and hard. Thank fuck for the tether.
Another hiss, slow and wet and dragging, echoes from the dark.
Mace grits his teeth, and starts moving slowly ahead with the match held aloft. The light passes over the bottle of tequila only a few feet away, which might probably come in real fucking handy very soon. Another step as he senses something up ahead, purely through instinct.
Stops when he’s about far as he can go without disentangling their grip, still with some give to the tether. Then the yellow halo of the match just about manages to shed light on what's in front of them, and Mace’s stomach turns to lead when he sees it.
It’s female. Long, straggling hair obscuring its face, head bent at a slight angle, arms rictus straight at the sides with fingers straining back unnaturally, the palms facing the floor, and the feet —
The feet.
They’re pointing backward.
Mace’s brain, for a handful of horrible seconds, stops processing what he’s seeing. Bony, bloodless heels facing him. Feet can’t be pointing backward. It shouldn’t be able to fucking stand if that were the case, wouldn’t be able to balance properly, Jesus Christ — ]
Ian. [ Barely above a breath, as he stumbles back to Ian’s side in the dark as quickly as he can without tripping over his own damn feet, letting the flame go out. It’s better that way. Positions himself so that he’s blocking the light of Ian's arm with his torso, standing right in front of him. ]
Gotta turn that thing off.
[ Again, a hiss. Drawn-out and watery and a lot closer this time, as Mace realizes with growing dread what that fucking sound is. It's fucking breathing. ]
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The only thing that keeps Mace from getting even briefly lost in the sudden, ugly flood of fear in his veins is the sound of Ian’s breathing, ratcheting up from normal to something staccato and loud and gasping, a precursor to what sounds like some kind of an attack. He sounds terrified. Fuck. And Mace can’t even —
Mace firmly shakes the hold they’ve got on each other, a bracing rattle of fingers, his eyes still straining to see ahead of them despite how badly he wants to look at Ian again, help him, calm him down. Quietly: ]
Stay with me. I need you.
[ Okay. Okay, fuck. Think, Mace. They’ve got the knife. He has the matches, pocketed them right before that goddamn hiss that made the hair at the back of his neck stand up — he readjusts his grip on Ian, making up his mind. His peripheral vision able to tell him by the blue glow that Ian’s still right next to him, breathing fast and hard. Thank fuck for the tether.
Another hiss, slow and wet and dragging, echoes from the dark.
Mace grits his teeth, and starts moving slowly ahead with the match held aloft. The light passes over the bottle of tequila only a few feet away, which might probably come in real fucking handy very soon. Another step as he senses something up ahead, purely through instinct.
Stops when he’s about far as he can go without disentangling their grip, still with some give to the tether. Then the yellow halo of the match just about manages to shed light on what's in front of them, and Mace’s stomach turns to lead when he sees it.
It’s female. Long, straggling hair obscuring its face, head bent at a slight angle, arms rictus straight at the sides with fingers straining back unnaturally, the palms facing the floor, and the feet —
The feet.
They’re pointing backward.
Mace’s brain, for a handful of horrible seconds, stops processing what he’s seeing. Bony, bloodless heels facing him. Feet can’t be pointing backward. It shouldn’t be able to fucking stand if that were the case, wouldn’t be able to balance properly, Jesus Christ — ]
Ian. [ Barely above a breath, as he stumbles back to Ian’s side in the dark as quickly as he can without tripping over his own damn feet, letting the flame go out. It’s better that way. Positions himself so that he’s blocking the light of Ian's arm with his torso, standing right in front of him. ]
Gotta turn that thing off.
[ Again, a hiss. Drawn-out and watery and a lot closer this time, as Mace realizes with growing dread what that fucking sound is. It's fucking breathing. ]