[ Having Ian nestled up to him like this, warm and soft and very much safe, is doing wonders for Mace's ability to get back to baseline. A distracted murmur that's still nevertheless firm, as Ian turns his head back and forth, inadvertently nuzzling him.
Another shift, and then his nose is pressing into Mace's chest in a way that can't be comfortable, but he doesn't seem to mind it at all; the whole business just makes Mace wish they were somewhere else, somewhere safer, or at least more like a house. Even the goddamn cabin would be better than this.
His own heartbeat is back to normal now, and the strange, fraught reluctance to let go of Ian for even a moment is starting to fade. Mace's voice goes from hoarse to a calmer, more wry rasp, ]
You're not gonna tell me, are you? [ About the nightmare. It's almost a rhetorical question, that's how certain he is of Ian's answer to it, and with an unwilling exhale, he lets go of Ian's waist to grope in the darkness for the matches he'd left by his head.
Grabs the box, and realizes he'll have to bring his other hand into the equation; with another exhale, does exactly that for a brief moment, and a flame bursts into life right above them, illuminating the immediate area as he sweeps it in a wide arc. A swift, keen glance around the enclave confirms there's nothing there, that their metal-and-wood blockage had done the trick of keeping them isolated in their sleep, and Mace lets his head fall back in relief.
It's short-lived. He's just about to suggest that they get a start on making whatever they need before they head out again, when the words freeze on his lips and his body goes suddenly tense underneath Ian, one arm quickly folding across his back.
Music. The faintest notes trickling into his ear as though from a great distance, and this time it's accompanied by something that has the small hairs on his arm stand up: a thin, grating sound of metal dragging against stone.
The match goes out. ]
Fuck. [ Bitten-out, angry at himself, feeling unease ripple through him. ] I'm hearing it again.
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Another shift, and then his nose is pressing into Mace's chest in a way that can't be comfortable, but he doesn't seem to mind it at all; the whole business just makes Mace wish they were somewhere else, somewhere safer, or at least more like a house. Even the goddamn cabin would be better than this.
His own heartbeat is back to normal now, and the strange, fraught reluctance to let go of Ian for even a moment is starting to fade. Mace's voice goes from hoarse to a calmer, more wry rasp, ]
You're not gonna tell me, are you? [ About the nightmare. It's almost a rhetorical question, that's how certain he is of Ian's answer to it, and with an unwilling exhale, he lets go of Ian's waist to grope in the darkness for the matches he'd left by his head.
Grabs the box, and realizes he'll have to bring his other hand into the equation; with another exhale, does exactly that for a brief moment, and a flame bursts into life right above them, illuminating the immediate area as he sweeps it in a wide arc. A swift, keen glance around the enclave confirms there's nothing there, that their metal-and-wood blockage had done the trick of keeping them isolated in their sleep, and Mace lets his head fall back in relief.
It's short-lived. He's just about to suggest that they get a start on making whatever they need before they head out again, when the words freeze on his lips and his body goes suddenly tense underneath Ian, one arm quickly folding across his back.
Music. The faintest notes trickling into his ear as though from a great distance, and this time it's accompanied by something that has the small hairs on his arm stand up: a thin, grating sound of metal dragging against stone.
The match goes out. ]
Fuck. [ Bitten-out, angry at himself, feeling unease ripple through him. ] I'm hearing it again.