[ Hang on, Ian says, and Mace’s fingers automatically draw back from the metal, and then he himself is drawing back to Ian’s side, watching him finish up the last of the packing. By the light of the torch, Mace catches the sudden pallor in Ian’s face, and worry lances through him when he sees the tremor that goes through those hands as they try to attach the mirror to the torch.
Fuck. He swallows back words of concern, knowing that they won't help right now. ]
Gotta be that. Or …
[ What Ian had said outside the cave suddenly comes to mind. Medusa. Greek mythology. Same thing Icarus was from, and hell if Mace doesn’t know that myth both inside and out. Icarus, son of Daedalus, the architect of those doomed wings. And Daedalus had built something else, hadn’t he? For the king of Crete. The labyrinth.
With the minotaur in its twisted guts.
But, Christ. He can see how shaken Ian is, hear the dazed sound of his voice — and Mace keeps that hypothesis to himself as he wordlessly takes the shirt. Part of him protests, wanting Ian to bundle up instead, but Mace does as he's told and slips it on, feeling the warmth of it instantly as it covers his bared arms. It’s good flannel.
(Ian made it for him.)
The corners of his mouth go a little soft as he tips Ian’s chin up with his thumb, and looks him in the eyes for a brief, steady moment. Then, softly, ]
This shirt smells like you.
[ He likes it. Likes … having something of Ian on him. Apparently, two back-to-back naps in a demonic death-cave had been enough to build the association for him — the shirt, Ian soft and rumpled in his arms, both of them at peace and together. The soft, tender feeling in his chest. Mace buttons the shirt all the way, up to the goddamn collar. Then he rolls up the sleeves in short, methodical movements, takes a long drink out of the canteen until it’s empty, and then passes it back to Ian.
Who has just finished retying the belt between their hips, testing the knot, and Mace realizes with a razor-thin pang that he’s gonna have to be ready to slice that in half, in the event that Ian has to make a run for it.
In a low voice, as he grabs either side of the metal: ]
Stay out of sight until I give the go-ahead, keep the crowbar up, and — be ready to make a break for it. Okay?
[ Compared to the wooden struts, it doesn’t take much to remove the enormous plate, and once it’s out Mace doesn’t put it down just then. Turns it on its side and slides it out of the opening as quietly as he can, moving behind it stealthy and slow — using it as a shield. The passage outside takes an upward turn almost immediately, and he goes as far as their tether will allow him.
It’s clear, as far as he can see and, more importantly, hear. No chains, no music, and there’s a palpable relief in Mace’s face and body language when he comes back. ]
no subject
Fuck. He swallows back words of concern, knowing that they won't help right now. ]
Gotta be that. Or …
[ What Ian had said outside the cave suddenly comes to mind. Medusa. Greek mythology. Same thing Icarus was from, and hell if Mace doesn’t know that myth both inside and out. Icarus, son of Daedalus, the architect of those doomed wings. And Daedalus had built something else, hadn’t he? For the king of Crete. The labyrinth.
With the minotaur in its twisted guts.
But, Christ. He can see how shaken Ian is, hear the dazed sound of his voice — and Mace keeps that hypothesis to himself as he wordlessly takes the shirt. Part of him protests, wanting Ian to bundle up instead, but Mace does as he's told and slips it on, feeling the warmth of it instantly as it covers his bared arms. It’s good flannel.
(Ian made it for him.)
The corners of his mouth go a little soft as he tips Ian’s chin up with his thumb, and looks him in the eyes for a brief, steady moment. Then, softly, ]
This shirt smells like you.
[ He likes it. Likes … having something of Ian on him. Apparently, two back-to-back naps in a demonic death-cave had been enough to build the association for him — the shirt, Ian soft and rumpled in his arms, both of them at peace and together. The soft, tender feeling in his chest. Mace buttons the shirt all the way, up to the goddamn collar. Then he rolls up the sleeves in short, methodical movements, takes a long drink out of the canteen until it’s empty, and then passes it back to Ian.
Who has just finished retying the belt between their hips, testing the knot, and Mace realizes with a razor-thin pang that he’s gonna have to be ready to slice that in half, in the event that Ian has to make a run for it.
In a low voice, as he grabs either side of the metal: ]
Stay out of sight until I give the go-ahead, keep the crowbar up, and — be ready to make a break for it. Okay?
[ Compared to the wooden struts, it doesn’t take much to remove the enormous plate, and once it’s out Mace doesn’t put it down just then. Turns it on its side and slides it out of the opening as quietly as he can, moving behind it stealthy and slow — using it as a shield. The passage outside takes an upward turn almost immediately, and he goes as far as their tether will allow him.
It’s clear, as far as he can see and, more importantly, hear. No chains, no music, and there’s a palpable relief in Mace’s face and body language when he comes back. ]
We’re good to go.