[ The darkness they’re in now is unlike anything Mace has seen before.
There’s nothing. There’s nothing, not even the faintest hint of light; Ian’s wrist had gone dark the moment the wall had slammed into place behind them. It's like being in the deepest part of the ocean, subsumed under the weight of black water, and for an interminable moment, the only sound is the blood in his ears.
He can feel Ian’s hand haul him in, finds that his own hand is already fisting into the back of Ian’s shirt even as their heartbeats hammer against together, needing human contact, needing Ian the way a drowning man might need air. Like it’s the only thing that matters.
Then the sound of Ian’s voice tremors and breaks the silence, short, staccato syllables forming the same question that Mace’s entire body is asking, every hair standing on end — and Mace swallows convulsively, unable to answer him for a moment. Not out of fear. Out of the bewildering sense of despair creeping in on him at the realization of what he’s just done to them. Where he’s pulled them into.
Christ, they could be anywhere. With anything, although at least not … ]
She’s gone.
[ Huskily, his hand going from Ian’s shirt to the back of his head, feeling gently along his scalp to make sure he hadn’t been grazed with any of the shards of glass — hadn’t hit his head anywhere in the ensuing scuffle when Mace had pushed him into a goddamn hole without even looking to see where they were headed. A miracle Ian had only tripped down one step, that Mace hadn’t fucking gotten him hurt further.
This, he thinks, is how Trey must have felt. That moment in the Icarus when the alarms had blared and they’d discovered that the shield hadn’t aligned with the rest of the ship’s trajectory.
Well, at least he knows the answer to the riddle scrawled on the cave wall, now. Her face, her fucking face —
Mary had gotten the life choked out of her until her eyes bulged out of her skull, red and wet, hands splayed at her sides, fingers scratching uselessly against stone until the nails tore open and the bone began to peek out.
And then he’d ripped the jaw clean off her head. Whoever the fuck “he” was. Or maybe something else had done that. Eaten away at the corpse, because the tongue had been gone, too, and her nose. Explained the breathing, the damp, rattling hisses; they’d got an eyeful straight down her horrible, empty throat.
Something twinges in his head at the thought — the feeling one might get when they’re forgetting a thing and can’t figure out what it is, like he's missing something here — but Mace pushes it away. Too distracted by the worry and guilt starting to gnaw at him, now that the icy flood of fear’s begun to recede.
Draws back from where his face has been pressed tight into Ian’s neck, his hand clumsily moving from the back of Ian’s head to his face, feeling out for any injury. ]
Are you — she get you anywhere? I get you anywhere? Fuck, I —
[ A blind, frantic kiss in the dark, almost missing Ian's mouth entirely. The need to be close twisting in his gut like a dying flower. ]
no subject
There’s nothing. There’s nothing, not even the faintest hint of light; Ian’s wrist had gone dark the moment the wall had slammed into place behind them. It's like being in the deepest part of the ocean, subsumed under the weight of black water, and for an interminable moment, the only sound is the blood in his ears.
He can feel Ian’s hand haul him in, finds that his own hand is already fisting into the back of Ian’s shirt even as their heartbeats hammer against together, needing human contact, needing Ian the way a drowning man might need air. Like it’s the only thing that matters.
Then the sound of Ian’s voice tremors and breaks the silence, short, staccato syllables forming the same question that Mace’s entire body is asking, every hair standing on end — and Mace swallows convulsively, unable to answer him for a moment. Not out of fear. Out of the bewildering sense of despair creeping in on him at the realization of what he’s just done to them. Where he’s pulled them into.
Christ, they could be anywhere. With anything, although at least not … ]
She’s gone.
[ Huskily, his hand going from Ian’s shirt to the back of his head, feeling gently along his scalp to make sure he hadn’t been grazed with any of the shards of glass — hadn’t hit his head anywhere in the ensuing scuffle when Mace had pushed him into a goddamn hole without even looking to see where they were headed. A miracle Ian had only tripped down one step, that Mace hadn’t fucking gotten him hurt further.
This, he thinks, is how Trey must have felt. That moment in the Icarus when the alarms had blared and they’d discovered that the shield hadn’t aligned with the rest of the ship’s trajectory.
Well, at least he knows the answer to the riddle scrawled on the cave wall, now. Her face, her fucking face —
Mary had gotten the life choked out of her until her eyes bulged out of her skull, red and wet, hands splayed at her sides, fingers scratching uselessly against stone until the nails tore open and the bone began to peek out.
And then he’d ripped the jaw clean off her head. Whoever the fuck “he” was. Or maybe something else had done that. Eaten away at the corpse, because the tongue had been gone, too, and her nose. Explained the breathing, the damp, rattling hisses; they’d got an eyeful straight down her horrible, empty throat.
Something twinges in his head at the thought — the feeling one might get when they’re forgetting a thing and can’t figure out what it is, like he's missing something here — but Mace pushes it away. Too distracted by the worry and guilt starting to gnaw at him, now that the icy flood of fear’s begun to recede.
Draws back from where his face has been pressed tight into Ian’s neck, his hand clumsily moving from the back of Ian’s head to his face, feeling out for any injury. ]
Are you — she get you anywhere? I get you anywhere? Fuck, I —
[ A blind, frantic kiss in the dark, almost missing Ian's mouth entirely. The need to be close twisting in his gut like a dying flower. ]
I fucked up, Ian.