[ I’m not doing it, Ian says, his voice so faint and shaken that just hearing it would be enough for Mace to know what state he’s in, even without the way his panicked breathing had been on the verge of hyperventilation. The distress is rolling off of him in waves and it has Mace inching into him with his whole body, unconscious and protective. Probably pressing him a little too hard into the wall behind the both of them, straightening his back and widening the stance of his shoulders, despite the way his hindbrain instincts are telling him to hunch them forward instead, reduce surface area and chance of —
Chance of what?
Another rattling, damp intake of air, too close for comfort, too soon for it to make any sense because there’s no fucking footsteps, and Mace’s thoughts flash back to the way those fingers had been curled back, the rotting nails giving way to sharp, blackened bone.
If it. No, if she curled them forward instead — ]
All right, easy.
[ Breathed out gently, knowing what it must be taking for Ian to control his fear, is eyes trying to use the slight blue glow still in the air around them to track any movement in the dark in front of them. Ian’s not doing it, I think it's her, and somehow this godforsaken place must’ve managed to hijack his superpowers, use it for its own evil fucking purposes.
The methodical part of Mace’s brain wants devote time to figuring out why, and the more primitive, knee-jerk part of him is instantly furious, even through the rising fear, that they’re doing something so invasive to his person, which, what the fuck brain —
But they don’t have time. They have.
The knife, in the hand that Ian’s got a death grip around and Mace already knows there’s no way he’s gonna let go, and the bottle of tequila that’s too fucking far away for him to be able to grasp it and stuff it with cloth.
Ssssssssss —
Click.
That wasn’t. Her. That was …
Mace swallows and presses Ian back into the wall with something that’s almost a backward thrust at this point, and —
Click. ]
Ian, it's not a wall. [ A sudden, realizing whisper, because a lightbulb’s going off in his head that’s telling him, what if it’s not just a wall, what if it’s a fucking door. If Ian can feel along the stonework, find something that triggers it into opening —
The vague snatches of a plan are beginning to formulate in Mace’s mind, and he slowly moves forward again, this time with purpose, ears cocked and eyes peeled, albeit to very little effect. Doesn’t need to light up a match because he knows almost exactly where that tequila bottle is now, and it won’t be a molotov cocktail but it’ll be something.
His fingers close around the neck of it.
And that’s when he realizes he can't hear anymore hissing. ]
no subject
Chance of what?
Another rattling, damp intake of air, too close for comfort, too soon for it to make any sense because there’s no fucking footsteps, and Mace’s thoughts flash back to the way those fingers had been curled back, the rotting nails giving way to sharp, blackened bone.
If it. No, if she curled them forward instead — ]
All right, easy.
[ Breathed out gently, knowing what it must be taking for Ian to control his fear, is eyes trying to use the slight blue glow still in the air around them to track any movement in the dark in front of them. Ian’s not doing it, I think it's her, and somehow this godforsaken place must’ve managed to hijack his superpowers, use it for its own evil fucking purposes.
The methodical part of Mace’s brain wants devote time to figuring out why, and the more primitive, knee-jerk part of him is instantly furious, even through the rising fear, that they’re doing something so invasive to his person, which, what the fuck brain —
But they don’t have time. They have.
The knife, in the hand that Ian’s got a death grip around and Mace already knows there’s no way he’s gonna let go, and the bottle of tequila that’s too fucking far away for him to be able to grasp it and stuff it with cloth.
Ssssssssss —
Click.
That wasn’t. Her. That was …
Mace swallows and presses Ian back into the wall with something that’s almost a backward thrust at this point, and —
Click. ]
Ian, it's not a wall. [ A sudden, realizing whisper, because a lightbulb’s going off in his head that’s telling him, what if it’s not just a wall, what if it’s a fucking door. If Ian can feel along the stonework, find something that triggers it into opening —
The vague snatches of a plan are beginning to formulate in Mace’s mind, and he slowly moves forward again, this time with purpose, ears cocked and eyes peeled, albeit to very little effect. Doesn’t need to light up a match because he knows almost exactly where that tequila bottle is now, and it won’t be a molotov cocktail but it’ll be something.
His fingers close around the neck of it.
And that’s when he realizes he can't hear anymore hissing. ]