[ That roughshod noise Ian makes is startling, has Mace’s shaky gaze rapt on him for the handful of seconds it takes to discern that it wasn’t out of pain — and then sheer relief overtakes him to know Ian hadn't plunged himself into ice water after Mace, thank fuck.
Instead of a grown man who knows full well how to swim, Mace might as well be a puppy paddling in the ocean for the first time, for all the difference his leg strokes make in the water. It’s Ian who pulls the majority of both their weights, it’s Ian’s grip on him that keeps him steady and upright against the drag of the current, his hands practically carrying Mace ashore.
Jesus, if only his teeth would stop chattering, if only the cold would leave him so he could say more than just ineffectual, moronic stammers. Because. He is so fucking proud of Ian. His guy had been there to pick up the pieces like the flannel on his shoulders really had been a cape.
Rushed right in without even looking.
Fuck, if something had happened to him —
The immortal towel finally meets its match when Ian tugs it away, and then there’s a blanket being wrapped around him, bringing with it a fresh descent of heat that has Mace’s breath coming out on a stuttering, low cry. It’s the pain of the thaw, nothing more, and it means fuck-all right now. Ian’s hands are moving restlessly from his shoulder to his bicep to his face, and Mace's eyes follow each movement, that lost, soft expression mixing with a slow clarity as he understands what’s happening.
Now that the worst is over, Ian’s — ]
Hey. Wuh — we’re. Okay. It’s — okay.
[ At the next sweep of Ian’s hand near his shoulder, Mace tilts his head to trap it there, leaning his cheek into it as he blinks up at Ian’s face in the flickering torchlight. ]
Ian. Ian.
[ Finally, his lips manage to curve up into something resembling a smile. It’s a little broken at the edges, with pride and gratitude and something that aches, and his arms are held down by the blanket so he can’t do what he actually wants, but. Mace swallows, turning his face so he can press his lips into that trapped palm, before saying something he never thought he’d ever fucking say to anyone. ]
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Instead of a grown man who knows full well how to swim, Mace might as well be a puppy paddling in the ocean for the first time, for all the difference his leg strokes make in the water. It’s Ian who pulls the majority of both their weights, it’s Ian’s grip on him that keeps him steady and upright against the drag of the current, his hands practically carrying Mace ashore.
Jesus, if only his teeth would stop chattering, if only the cold would leave him so he could say more than just ineffectual, moronic stammers. Because. He is so fucking proud of Ian. His guy had been there to pick up the pieces like the flannel on his shoulders really had been a cape.
Rushed right in without even looking.
Fuck, if something had happened to him —
The immortal towel finally meets its match when Ian tugs it away, and then there’s a blanket being wrapped around him, bringing with it a fresh descent of heat that has Mace’s breath coming out on a stuttering, low cry. It’s the pain of the thaw, nothing more, and it means fuck-all right now. Ian’s hands are moving restlessly from his shoulder to his bicep to his face, and Mace's eyes follow each movement, that lost, soft expression mixing with a slow clarity as he understands what’s happening.
Now that the worst is over, Ian’s — ]
Hey. Wuh — we’re. Okay. It’s — okay.
[ At the next sweep of Ian’s hand near his shoulder, Mace tilts his head to trap it there, leaning his cheek into it as he blinks up at Ian’s face in the flickering torchlight. ]
Ian. Ian.
[ Finally, his lips manage to curve up into something resembling a smile. It’s a little broken at the edges, with pride and gratitude and something that aches, and his arms are held down by the blanket so he can’t do what he actually wants, but. Mace swallows, turning his face so he can press his lips into that trapped palm, before saying something he never thought he’d ever fucking say to anyone. ]
Hold. Me?