[ Trust went hand-in-hand with the other thing Mace had figured might’ve taken a hit, and truthfully, that’s what he’d been worried about more. Possible loss of trust is why he was expecting to have to fight him on it, offer some sort of proof, because that was only logical. The other thing, though, that’s what had had him giving Ian some space.
To know he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore is a relief he didn’t know he was missing, has him relaxing despite himself. Despite everything. Laying like this, the comforting weight of Ian’s body on top of his own and the heat of him so close, it serves to give Mace the kind of rest that’s the next best thing to sleep itself. He doesn’t let his guard down, doesn’t nod off even for a blink, but it’s like he can feel his exhaustion seep straight from his back and into the stone underneath them.
It’s like the kiss. Back at the cabin. He hadn’t needed or thought about food, after that. Ian’s pretty gone to the world in his arms, but every now and then makes some sort of soft, snuffling noise that has him smiling faint and involuntary in between bouts of deep, mostly horrific thoughts.
Namely, the contents of the rucksack. He goes over the scenario a hundred times in the ensuing stretch of time that follows, and each time, that’s the main thing that stands out. Leads him to the same conclusion.
Not a threat, nor a trigger. A riddle on the wall, and inside the bag — either a clue, or the answer.
Had Mary been in there the entire time? Her corpse? Or the murder weapon? Neither is that great of a thought. Neither inspires confidence. Because suppose it was her who'd written that on the wall — suppose if there’d been some sort of clue in the bag —
His thoughts are cut off by a sudden sound — the very first, during this entire time — that comes up out of the dark.
It’s muffled enough that for a second Mace thinks he's imagining it, that it’s just some echo of own breathing in his ears. If it hadn’t been dead fucking silent around them he would’ve missed it for sure. Wouldn’t have been able to catch it if he’d been talking, either. But he hears it now and with a mouthed curse, understands what it is; the sound of stone grating against stone, the same as when they’d fallen down this damn rabbit hole.
Jesus fucking Christ. There’s another door?
One hand tightens around Ian’s slumbering body while the other slowly peels away and goes for the knife, as he turns his head and stares into the hall, muscles coiled tight and ready.
Nothing. Nothing.
Just that sound of a door being opened, and … God, he doesn’t know if that’s better, or worse. On the one hand, it just about confirms that there’s an egress point. On the other, somebody had to have opened it, which means it also confirms the existence of an active hostile.
Which means he'll have to wake Ian up, let him know. ]
Ian. C'mon, buddy.
[ Softly, trying not to startle him out of sleep, regretting that he has to pull him out of it at all. Don’t leave me, Ian had said, and Mace’s answer had been in the form of his lips brushing against the top of his hair, careless of the sweat and dirt and dried blood there. Something he knows Ian hadn't even registered, because he'd been asleep almost immediately. He hesitates and then repeats the movement, this time shifting so that he can aim for Ian's forehead, gently rubbing one hand against his back in a rocking motion. ]
no subject
To know he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore is a relief he didn’t know he was missing, has him relaxing despite himself. Despite everything. Laying like this, the comforting weight of Ian’s body on top of his own and the heat of him so close, it serves to give Mace the kind of rest that’s the next best thing to sleep itself. He doesn’t let his guard down, doesn’t nod off even for a blink, but it’s like he can feel his exhaustion seep straight from his back and into the stone underneath them.
It’s like the kiss. Back at the cabin. He hadn’t needed or thought about food, after that. Ian’s pretty gone to the world in his arms, but every now and then makes some sort of soft, snuffling noise that has him smiling faint and involuntary in between bouts of deep, mostly horrific thoughts.
Namely, the contents of the rucksack. He goes over the scenario a hundred times in the ensuing stretch of time that follows, and each time, that’s the main thing that stands out. Leads him to the same conclusion.
Not a threat, nor a trigger. A riddle on the wall, and inside the bag — either a clue, or the answer.
Had Mary been in there the entire time? Her corpse? Or the murder weapon? Neither is that great of a thought. Neither inspires confidence. Because suppose it was her who'd written that on the wall — suppose if there’d been some sort of clue in the bag —
His thoughts are cut off by a sudden sound — the very first, during this entire time — that comes up out of the dark.
It’s muffled enough that for a second Mace thinks he's imagining it, that it’s just some echo of own breathing in his ears. If it hadn’t been dead fucking silent around them he would’ve missed it for sure. Wouldn’t have been able to catch it if he’d been talking, either. But he hears it now and with a mouthed curse, understands what it is; the sound of stone grating against stone, the same as when they’d fallen down this damn rabbit hole.
Jesus fucking Christ. There’s another door?
One hand tightens around Ian’s slumbering body while the other slowly peels away and goes for the knife, as he turns his head and stares into the hall, muscles coiled tight and ready.
Nothing. Nothing.
Just that sound of a door being opened, and … God, he doesn’t know if that’s better, or worse. On the one hand, it just about confirms that there’s an egress point. On the other, somebody had to have opened it, which means it also confirms the existence of an active hostile.
Which means he'll have to wake Ian up, let him know. ]
Ian. C'mon, buddy.
[ Softly, trying not to startle him out of sleep, regretting that he has to pull him out of it at all. Don’t leave me, Ian had said, and Mace’s answer had been in the form of his lips brushing against the top of his hair, careless of the sweat and dirt and dried blood there. Something he knows Ian hadn't even registered, because he'd been asleep almost immediately. He hesitates and then repeats the movement, this time shifting so that he can aim for Ian's forehead, gently rubbing one hand against his back in a rocking motion. ]