[ There’s a protest ready and waiting on Mace’s lips as he watches Ian head off toward the riverbed without so much as a backwards glance, and he almost gets it out, too —
If it weren’t for the sudden, violent sneezing that overtakes him, that has him doubling over with the force of it, right into the crook of his elbow.
Maybe getting warm isn't such a bad idea. Son of a bitch, but he can’t afford to get sick, can’t let himself get knocked down for the count and leave Ian to pick up more and more of the slack — and it’s with that thought in mind that Mace unravels the flannel from where Ian had left it tied around the rope, a worried frown puckering his brows as he puts it on.
Buttons it all the way up again, despite the way the collar presses into his sore throat, and leaves the sleeves unrolled this time around. Bundles their supplies up together again and grabs the torch from where it's wedged in the rocks, before joining Ian where he’s hard at work, shovelling underneath the portcullis. The rope’s still tied around the lever, but Mace doesn't even give it a glance this time, distracted by his guy.
And not entirely out of worry, because — well, fuck. Look at him go. ]
Ian.
[ Half-firm, half-impressed. It’s not the juvenile part of Mace this time, it’s something more lizard-brain, like being in a cave for so long has him thinking like a caveman too. The pride he feels at having found such a mate — not just intelligent, not just beautiful, but strong and capable.
Yeah, not the time, Mace. ]
Gimme the shovel, come on. Look, I’m all — warmed up.
[ Let him do the heavy-lifting while he's still good for it. If it's a pigeonhole, it's one he's picked for himself on his own. ]
no subject
If it weren’t for the sudden, violent sneezing that overtakes him, that has him doubling over with the force of it, right into the crook of his elbow.
Maybe getting warm isn't such a bad idea. Son of a bitch, but he can’t afford to get sick, can’t let himself get knocked down for the count and leave Ian to pick up more and more of the slack — and it’s with that thought in mind that Mace unravels the flannel from where Ian had left it tied around the rope, a worried frown puckering his brows as he puts it on.
Buttons it all the way up again, despite the way the collar presses into his sore throat, and leaves the sleeves unrolled this time around. Bundles their supplies up together again and grabs the torch from where it's wedged in the rocks, before joining Ian where he’s hard at work, shovelling underneath the portcullis. The rope’s still tied around the lever, but Mace doesn't even give it a glance this time, distracted by his guy.
And not entirely out of worry, because — well, fuck. Look at him go. ]
Ian.
[ Half-firm, half-impressed. It’s not the juvenile part of Mace this time, it’s something more lizard-brain, like being in a cave for so long has him thinking like a caveman too. The pride he feels at having found such a mate — not just intelligent, not just beautiful, but strong and capable.
Yeah, not the time, Mace. ]
Gimme the shovel, come on. Look, I’m all — warmed up.
[ Let him do the heavy-lifting while he's still good for it. If it's a pigeonhole, it's one he's picked for himself on his own. ]