[ It’s not until there’s a hand on his arm that Mace’s gaze clears, focuses properly on the man in front of him. He'd heard the soft laugh and if he wasn't so concerned, he might've made the joke about Fight Club himself, or at least quipped that Ian was thinking it. But with what's on his mind, he can't quite muster it.
Ian’s a civilian; it’s not even worry on Mace’s part that his partner in crime doesn’t know how to fight, it’s the fact that he shouldn’t have to, shouldn’t be near the line of fire in the first place. Pure and simple, the buck stops with the guy who’s had combat training, and if something happens, if something goes wrong ...
Then it passes, driven away by the steadfast, serious conviction he hears in that voice, sees in Ian’s eyes.
Yeah, he believes it, and it’s with a small, real smile that Mace says: ]
I’ll be counting on it.
[ Before reaching out to clap his hand onto Ian’s shoulder, following it up with a firm squeeze to show he means it, too. Because he will be, he has to be. They can’t go into this unless they both trust the other guy to work to the best of his ability — although that doesn’t mean Mace won’t still be doing what he can to direct the flow of fighting toward himself as much as possible.
After that, the minutes seem to tick by like seconds; Ian works his magic, Mace makes a nail bat. Mace gets all the doors out of the way while Ian rigs up the fishing line, connecting the wiring so that lethal electricity is at their fingertips with a flip of any of the switches upstairs. Well, lethal enough for humans, anyway. ]
You know what would suck?
[ Called over his shoulder as puts the finishing touches on the flooring in front of the fireplace in the living room — a liberal coating of WD40. It’s also at the head of the stairs leading up to the bedroom and all along the railing. Mace wipes his palms on his thighs and gets to his feet, walking back over to where Ian is. ]
Imagine that we’re doing all this, and then it turns out that it’s fuckin’ ghosts or something.
no subject
Ian’s a civilian; it’s not even worry on Mace’s part that his partner in crime doesn’t know how to fight, it’s the fact that he shouldn’t have to, shouldn’t be near the line of fire in the first place. Pure and simple, the buck stops with the guy who’s had combat training, and if something happens, if something goes wrong ...
Then it passes, driven away by the steadfast, serious conviction he hears in that voice, sees in Ian’s eyes.
Yeah, he believes it, and it’s with a small, real smile that Mace says: ]
I’ll be counting on it.
[ Before reaching out to clap his hand onto Ian’s shoulder, following it up with a firm squeeze to show he means it, too. Because he will be, he has to be. They can’t go into this unless they both trust the other guy to work to the best of his ability — although that doesn’t mean Mace won’t still be doing what he can to direct the flow of fighting toward himself as much as possible.
After that, the minutes seem to tick by like seconds; Ian works his magic, Mace makes a nail bat. Mace gets all the doors out of the way while Ian rigs up the fishing line, connecting the wiring so that lethal electricity is at their fingertips with a flip of any of the switches upstairs. Well, lethal enough for humans, anyway. ]
You know what would suck?
[ Called over his shoulder as puts the finishing touches on the flooring in front of the fireplace in the living room — a liberal coating of WD40. It’s also at the head of the stairs leading up to the bedroom and all along the railing. Mace wipes his palms on his thighs and gets to his feet, walking back over to where Ian is. ]
Imagine that we’re doing all this, and then it turns out that it’s fuckin’ ghosts or something.