[ His eyelids do flicker open properly at the reminder of the hospital mask, a quiet understanding rippling through him. Yeah, he could almost tell the way Mace's eyes were drawn to that corner. The gut instinct he had to make sure he didn't lay a hand on any of it. He remembers that pull, that hypnotic draw to touch that he'd have given into if Mace hadn't talked him down.
God only knows how that might've gone differently. They'd have kicked the door in with neither of them remotely prepared, no bonding to speak of to make them look out for each other. He'd be dead, probably.
This place is a fucking mouse trap, isn't it? Or some kind of maze? Luring them in with treats and temptations, and they get fucking zapped when they touch them.
Mace's hand on his wrist makes the glow flicker, then ultimately die off. Tired hands go for Mace's forearm, curling around it with the soft feeling of dry skin passing over skin. It's a bleary, pointless thing - not to remove or to pull, just an automatic rub. A reassuring touch. The tactile need to express affection in an absent, gentle up and down.
The desire to settle against his side and lean into him is near-overwhelming. ]
Yeah, but who's looking out for you when I'm out?
[ A discontented murmur. Fighting the inevitable, he knows, but. Fuck, it just feels so wrong to leave Mace awake by himself.
And always, always the permanent fear that he'll wake up to something new and horrifying hovering over his fucking face. ]
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God only knows how that might've gone differently. They'd have kicked the door in with neither of them remotely prepared, no bonding to speak of to make them look out for each other. He'd be dead, probably.
This place is a fucking mouse trap, isn't it? Or some kind of maze? Luring them in with treats and temptations, and they get fucking zapped when they touch them.
Mace's hand on his wrist makes the glow flicker, then ultimately die off. Tired hands go for Mace's forearm, curling around it with the soft feeling of dry skin passing over skin. It's a bleary, pointless thing - not to remove or to pull, just an automatic rub. A reassuring touch. The tactile need to express affection in an absent, gentle up and down.
The desire to settle against his side and lean into him is near-overwhelming. ]
Yeah, but who's looking out for you when I'm out?
[ A discontented murmur. Fighting the inevitable, he knows, but. Fuck, it just feels so wrong to leave Mace awake by himself.
And always, always the permanent fear that he'll wake up to something new and horrifying hovering over his fucking face. ]