[ And of course, Ian’s thanking him. Earnest and sincere like it’s not Mace’s fuck-up that’s landed him with a life-threatening injury.
Mace catches that look, holds it for a few lingering seconds, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to say something more cavalier like let’s see how you feel tomorrow morning, pal because the pain’s probably gonna be worse then. But … ]
I couldn't have done half this shit without you. And don’t thank a fish for swimming.
[ Simple and unvarnished, as though describing the colour of the sky. What he means by that is, this is what I’ve trained for. That booking it wasn’t an option he was inherently capable of, let alone actually doing it. Even if Ian hadn’t been somebody he’d taken to almost immediately, solid ground forming between them right from the get-go, it would’ve been on Mace to do his damn job.
And he hadn’t even done that right, the proof of it a long, jagged gash down Ian’s stomach.
The longer he mulls over it, the more he can feel himself start to stray toward something a little too close to catastrophizing for comfort — or at least, what counts for catastrophizing to James Mace — and he knows there’s only one way to stall that. Focus on what he can do, prioritize it, and then get it cracking like a bad back.
The thought brings him a fresh burst of energy, channeling his simmering agitation and worry into fuel. First things first — dress his palms with the remaining cotton and fabric like a boxing wrap. Second, get Ian to relative safety in one of the bedrooms, which he belatedly realizes he ought to have done at the onset. Fucking hell. ]
I’m gonna lift you up, okay? Don’t strain anything, don’t push yourself. On the count of, one, two —
[ It can’t be a fireman’s carry and Ian’s in no condition to get to his feet and stay that way even half-supported by Mace, so he takes the simplest route forward and carefully slides an arm underneath the very top of Ian’s torso, across his back. The other goes under the dip of his knees and locks into place.
A grunted out three, and then Mace is lifting him up, blankets and all. The pillows, though, those he leaves behind to pick up later. He’s lucky Ian’s a fit guy. ]
no subject
Mace catches that look, holds it for a few lingering seconds, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to say something more cavalier like let’s see how you feel tomorrow morning, pal because the pain’s probably gonna be worse then. But … ]
I couldn't have done half this shit without you. And don’t thank a fish for swimming.
[ Simple and unvarnished, as though describing the colour of the sky. What he means by that is, this is what I’ve trained for. That booking it wasn’t an option he was inherently capable of, let alone actually doing it. Even if Ian hadn’t been somebody he’d taken to almost immediately, solid ground forming between them right from the get-go, it would’ve been on Mace to do his damn job.
And he hadn’t even done that right, the proof of it a long, jagged gash down Ian’s stomach.
The longer he mulls over it, the more he can feel himself start to stray toward something a little too close to catastrophizing for comfort — or at least, what counts for catastrophizing to James Mace — and he knows there’s only one way to stall that. Focus on what he can do, prioritize it, and then get it cracking like a bad back.
The thought brings him a fresh burst of energy, channeling his simmering agitation and worry into fuel. First things first — dress his palms with the remaining cotton and fabric like a boxing wrap. Second, get Ian to relative safety in one of the bedrooms, which he belatedly realizes he ought to have done at the onset. Fucking hell. ]
I’m gonna lift you up, okay? Don’t strain anything, don’t push yourself. On the count of, one, two —
[ It can’t be a fireman’s carry and Ian’s in no condition to get to his feet and stay that way even half-supported by Mace, so he takes the simplest route forward and carefully slides an arm underneath the very top of Ian’s torso, across his back. The other goes under the dip of his knees and locks into place.
A grunted out three, and then Mace is lifting him up, blankets and all. The pillows, though, those he leaves behind to pick up later. He’s lucky Ian’s a fit guy. ]