[ Yeah, don't think he missed that artful dodge, Mace. Complete and utter refusal to accept gratitude. It's allowed now, but once he's got his right mind back under control he's gonna circle back to it. He's not so much the type to allow sleeping dogs to lie, not when it matters. He'll take any excuse to have a heart to heart (provided it's about someone else's heart, not his own).
Rain check on that for if he survives the night.
Though he knew leaving the table was an eventuality and, by extension, Mace at least partially carrying him would be a requirement, he didn't picture it like this. He's braced for his arm going over a broad set of shoulders, braced to try and put weight on his feet and help drag himself down the hall in a grueling struggle toward the bed.
He wasn't prepped for bridal style.
First comes the pain. It's inevitable, there's no easy way around it, and the second Mace moves him in a way that his stomach contracts it's ripping out of his throat. Glassy gravel, low tones that shoot up to high and taper back down again to round out the sound - then stop abruptly as he clamps down on his throat and manages to control himself.
Well, except for one last involuntary unh near-sob that breaks right after. His left arm hangs mostly useless, still fucked up from the scalpel it took earlier. The right grips onto the fabric at the back of Mace's shirt, fingers furling and rumpling it up right above his shoulder blades.
When it passes enough that he can speak in a manner he thinks will be mostly level, he pants out (breathless, stuttering): ]
J-ey-eysus Christ, prince charming, you should- 'f- should've kept your armor on for that fucking fight.
[ Never mind the fact that princes don't have armor, knights do. Don't expect perfection from his stoner-drawled wit right now, not when it's a legitimate triumph that he didn't piss himself and the guy carrying him at the same time.
When pain reaches a certain point, it can become nausea. As if he didn't have an issue with vertigo already, the movement slaps on another layer. He can feel the precarious tackiness starting at the back of his throat, the lump, the thickness.
Fuck this is pathetic. This is so fucking pathetic. The closest he's ever felt to this level of shit is the week after his mother died.
In a rushed, single-breathed warning: ]
This is not my proudest moment and I'm really trying to save face here because you're fucking killing it right now with the rugged hero thing you're pulling off, swear to god it's almost emasculating if I had a problem with that kind of thing which I definitely don't but if you don't put me down I'm gonna fucking puke straight down your back and if I lose my intestines I at least wanna keep my fucking dignity--
no subject
Rain check on that for if he survives the night.
Though he knew leaving the table was an eventuality and, by extension, Mace at least partially carrying him would be a requirement, he didn't picture it like this. He's braced for his arm going over a broad set of shoulders, braced to try and put weight on his feet and help drag himself down the hall in a grueling struggle toward the bed.
He wasn't prepped for bridal style.
First comes the pain. It's inevitable, there's no easy way around it, and the second Mace moves him in a way that his stomach contracts it's ripping out of his throat. Glassy gravel, low tones that shoot up to high and taper back down again to round out the sound - then stop abruptly as he clamps down on his throat and manages to control himself.
Well, except for one last involuntary unh near-sob that breaks right after. His left arm hangs mostly useless, still fucked up from the scalpel it took earlier. The right grips onto the fabric at the back of Mace's shirt, fingers furling and rumpling it up right above his shoulder blades.
When it passes enough that he can speak in a manner he thinks will be mostly level, he pants out (breathless, stuttering): ]
J-ey-eysus Christ, prince charming, you should- 'f- should've kept your armor on for that fucking fight.
[ Never mind the fact that princes don't have armor, knights do. Don't expect perfection from his stoner-drawled wit right now, not when it's a legitimate triumph that he didn't piss himself and the guy carrying him at the same time.
When pain reaches a certain point, it can become nausea. As if he didn't have an issue with vertigo already, the movement slaps on another layer. He can feel the precarious tackiness starting at the back of his throat, the lump, the thickness.
Fuck this is pathetic. This is so fucking pathetic. The closest he's ever felt to this level of shit is the week after his mother died.
In a rushed, single-breathed warning: ]
This is not my proudest moment and I'm really trying to save face here because you're fucking killing it right now with the rugged hero thing you're pulling off, swear to god it's almost emasculating if I had a problem with that kind of thing which I definitely don't but if you don't put me down I'm gonna fucking puke straight down your back and if I lose my intestines I at least wanna keep my fucking dignity--