[ He can still smell the lingering scent of sandalwood in Ian’s hair as he draws back from the kiss, and the shower that they’d shared feels like a hundred years ago. Back when Mace had actually been doing his damn job and keeping Ian safe, not actively endangering him, and the reminder is an acrid taste at the back of his throat when he swallows, watching the blue opalescence of Ian’s arm wordlessly.
Fucked up how? Ian asks, glancing around them in the faint glow, and Mace doesn’t even know where to start. Although. Ian’s next words. Yeah, that’s … probably the right place. Frankly speaking, it’s a shocker that Ian’s not more pissed because Christ, what a goddamn shitshow, courtesy James Mace. Thank fuck Ian wasn't hurt, or worse.
God, she’d been so fucking close. Right at Ian’s face, while Mace crept forward for the tequila like a drunken octogenarian instead of rush-grabbing it, wasted seconds that they hadn’t had, seconds that might've cost them more than they could’ve afforded. All because —
Yeah, what, Mace? Because what? Because this is the first time you’ve had something, someone, like this? How’s that gonna sound? I was worried about how tired you were getting, I didn’t want to add more to it, that knife came out half-formed and when I saw your face all I wanted to do was take you away from here, even if it was just in my arms—
Nothing but excuses. Nothing but passing the buck, and nope. He hadn’t done it on the Icarus when he’d unnecessarily lost his temper with Capa, and he won't do it now, either. ]
I lost track. [ Almost the same words he’d said back then, sitting in Searle’s office, and the spirit of the follow-up is the same, too. ]
It won’t happen again. [ Well, maybe this next part’s a little different. ] Thinking with the wrong head, you know.
[ Not quite; the organ he'd been thinking with had been smack-dab in his chest, but he doesn’t have the right to get into his feelings right now, and he still owes Ian some kind of an explanation that comes with full accountability. Even if it that all boiled down to I was waiting for the right time, Ian was right; that time had been right at the start of the conversation.
It's also a bit of a tactical move. Ian's annoyed; Mace making a dick reference might annoy him further. The more room there is in him to be pissed, the less room there is for fear. Less fear means, ostensibly, heightened chances of survival because fear dulls the senses. And also just because Mace plain doesn't like hearing Ian afraid, or in pain, or upset; wants to prevent that however he can.
His free hand dips down to where they're still holding the knife together, and he pauses to feel around for Ian's wrist. Brushes his thumb there, right at his pulse point, a strangely intimate gesture. And then he's gently freeing his hand so he can have the knife ready, because right now he's not even a bodyguard, let alone a damn prince. He's maybe the stable boy.
Striking a match has the following few benefits: one, he gets to see Ian's face better, satisfy the part of him that hadn't been content with physicality alone, needing visual proof of the fact that Ian was indeed unhurt. Two, now that they can see each other, Mace can mouth I'm sorry at him and have Ian see the apology in his eyes, too.
Three, somehow the lamp from the cave had managed to get dragged in, lying a few feet away from them at the head of the steps. It's still shattered, still overturned, but all it would require is a little oil and ... ]
Should I light that thing up?
[ If the answer's no, which it might be considering where the lantern had come from, Mace's fine leaving it there. Fine with lighting a match every step of the way, although maybe Ian can make, like. A stake or something. ]
no subject
Fucked up how? Ian asks, glancing around them in the faint glow, and Mace doesn’t even know where to start. Although. Ian’s next words. Yeah, that’s … probably the right place. Frankly speaking, it’s a shocker that Ian’s not more pissed because Christ, what a goddamn shitshow, courtesy James Mace. Thank fuck Ian wasn't hurt, or worse.
God, she’d been so fucking close. Right at Ian’s face, while Mace crept forward for the tequila like a drunken octogenarian instead of rush-grabbing it, wasted seconds that they hadn’t had, seconds that might've cost them more than they could’ve afforded. All because —
Yeah, what, Mace? Because what? Because this is the first time you’ve had something, someone, like this? How’s that gonna sound? I was worried about how tired you were getting, I didn’t want to add more to it, that knife came out half-formed and when I saw your face all I wanted to do was take you away from here, even if it was just in my arms—
Nothing but excuses. Nothing but passing the buck, and nope. He hadn’t done it on the Icarus when he’d unnecessarily lost his temper with Capa, and he won't do it now, either. ]
I lost track. [ Almost the same words he’d said back then, sitting in Searle’s office, and the spirit of the follow-up is the same, too. ]
It won’t happen again. [ Well, maybe this next part’s a little different. ] Thinking with the wrong head, you know.
[ Not quite; the organ he'd been thinking with had been smack-dab in his chest, but he doesn’t have the right to get into his feelings right now, and he still owes Ian some kind of an explanation that comes with full accountability. Even if it that all boiled down to I was waiting for the right time, Ian was right; that time had been right at the start of the conversation.
It's also a bit of a tactical move. Ian's annoyed; Mace making a dick reference might annoy him further. The more room there is in him to be pissed, the less room there is for fear. Less fear means, ostensibly, heightened chances of survival because fear dulls the senses. And also just because Mace plain doesn't like hearing Ian afraid, or in pain, or upset; wants to prevent that however he can.
His free hand dips down to where they're still holding the knife together, and he pauses to feel around for Ian's wrist. Brushes his thumb there, right at his pulse point, a strangely intimate gesture. And then he's gently freeing his hand so he can have the knife ready, because right now he's not even a bodyguard, let alone a damn prince. He's maybe the stable boy.
Striking a match has the following few benefits: one, he gets to see Ian's face better, satisfy the part of him that hadn't been content with physicality alone, needing visual proof of the fact that Ian was indeed unhurt. Two, now that they can see each other, Mace can mouth I'm sorry at him and have Ian see the apology in his eyes, too.
Three, somehow the lamp from the cave had managed to get dragged in, lying a few feet away from them at the head of the steps. It's still shattered, still overturned, but all it would require is a little oil and ... ]
Should I light that thing up?
[ If the answer's no, which it might be considering where the lantern had come from, Mace's fine leaving it there. Fine with lighting a match every step of the way, although maybe Ian can make, like. A stake or something. ]