[ He's not expecting the blue glow to melt away at his first behest, much less the touch to his forearm and the subsequent rub. Thought he'd have to fight Ian on it a little more, prove himself good for his word, and certainly without Ian's fingers writing affection into his skin. Reassuring him instead of. Instead of.
The surprise doesn't show on his face, but his expression relaxes visibly, some of the tension going out of his shoulders and the set of his jaw.
It emboldens him a little, too. Enough so that his automatic attempt at giving Ian his space after they'd ended up here, thanks to Mace's fuckup, gets superceded by something more instinctive. Without saying anything at first, he shifts and kneewalks over to Ian's side, and only then dislodges their hands. ]
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? [ Dredged up out of his college memories, rusty and probably mispronounced, seeing as he'd only ever read it in a book. Definitely out of context here, considering the origin of it.
Careful but steady, no longer expecting to be rebuffed, he tugs Ian into his arms, but it's different this time; arranges him so that he's settled with Mace's chest underneath his cheek, on his stomach. Their legs splayed out, almost touching the other wall. The flannel, he shakes out and then covers Ian with it, wrapping the whole thing neatly by folding his arms over Ian's back and upper body. Like this, Ian's head is nestled just underneath Mace's chin, and they're close enough that he can murmur: ]
I will. Now, go to sleep.
[ The knife is right by his hand, the wall at his back, and the bottle just down and off to the side. Rope and torches lined up, making a meaningless barrier between their bodies and the rest of the tunnel. His sisters used to do that, sometimes. Line up their pillows down the bed like it could stop anything.
Mace passes his hands back and forth over Ian's back as they lay there, slow and soothing in a way that he probably doesn't need to put him under, and his mind wanders back to what had knocked into it earlier. The rucksack.
The lantern had been busted, the furs ripped apart, but the rucksack had been plain fucking missing. And sure as fuck, it had had something in it. And whoever'd put it there had wanted them to open it, had been luring Mace to do it even before he'd read the wall.
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The surprise doesn't show on his face, but his expression relaxes visibly, some of the tension going out of his shoulders and the set of his jaw.
It emboldens him a little, too. Enough so that his automatic attempt at giving Ian his space after they'd ended up here, thanks to Mace's fuckup, gets superceded by something more instinctive. Without saying anything at first, he shifts and kneewalks over to Ian's side, and only then dislodges their hands. ]
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? [ Dredged up out of his college memories, rusty and probably mispronounced, seeing as he'd only ever read it in a book. Definitely out of context here, considering the origin of it.
Careful but steady, no longer expecting to be rebuffed, he tugs Ian into his arms, but it's different this time; arranges him so that he's settled with Mace's chest underneath his cheek, on his stomach. Their legs splayed out, almost touching the other wall. The flannel, he shakes out and then covers Ian with it, wrapping the whole thing neatly by folding his arms over Ian's back and upper body. Like this, Ian's head is nestled just underneath Mace's chin, and they're close enough that he can murmur: ]
I will. Now, go to sleep.
[ The knife is right by his hand, the wall at his back, and the bottle just down and off to the side. Rope and torches lined up, making a meaningless barrier between their bodies and the rest of the tunnel. His sisters used to do that, sometimes. Line up their pillows down the bed like it could stop anything.
Mace passes his hands back and forth over Ian's back as they lay there, slow and soothing in a way that he probably doesn't need to put him under, and his mind wanders back to what had knocked into it earlier. The rucksack.
The lantern had been busted, the furs ripped apart, but the rucksack had been plain fucking missing. And sure as fuck, it had had something in it. And whoever'd put it there had wanted them to open it, had been luring Mace to do it even before he'd read the wall.
A warning. A puzzle. A trigger?
The note on the wall, written like a riddle.
What the fuck had been inside the bag? ]