vestigechat | inaugural tdm of unspecified duration.

Entry tags:

!tdm

inaugural tdm of unspecified duration.

				
				VESTIGE TEST DRIVE MEME

WHAT IS THIS?

Vestige

The Box

invite-only

horror jamjar

Good Quality Suffering™️

ongoing

no official start date

literally nothing but this TDM

all powers intact

items

Intro + Friending

EDIT 5/20:

DISCORD SERVER

 PROMPT 1 ► just your ordinary cabin in the woods 

⬛ARRIVAL + GENERAL PROMPT

 PROMPT 2 ► who's up for some fighty-fight, kids??

⬛MONSTER HORROR.

packed

A child's drawing, of what appears to be... shit, what even is that? Is it a bat? Is it some kind of... reptile? We just don't know. (result! warnings for gore/violence.)
A light-blue paper face mask, the sort used in hospitals for patients who have a cold. Maybe you guys should've brought masks too. It sure would keep all this dust the hell out of your nose... ( result! warning for body horror! )
A buzzsaw blade, dusty but intact. ( result! warnings for gore/violence. )
A music box, covered in faded yellow flowers. I wonder what music it plays? ( result! warnings for gore/violence and Alarming Children. )
A funeral urn. But... It seems that someone glued it shut around the edges? I guess that's one way to make sure nobody spills grandma. ( result! )

 PROMPT 3 ► congratulations, you fucked up

⬛SURVIVAL HORROR.

easy

smoke

here

 PROMPT 4 ► "escape"? never heard of her.

⬛PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR.

try

The first time your character ventures into the fog, they're just turned around and sent back to the cabin.
The second time, they hallucinate things that they don't want to hear. Something they fear, something that hurts them, something that stresses them the fuck out. Maybe a character's worst fear is wildcats and they hear one growling just out of sight in the mist. Maybe instead they hear a loved one crying for help back in the direction from which they've come, drawing them back to the cabin. Or maybe they hear the voice of someone they admire berating their cowardice or stupidity or something, for running away from the cabin in the first place. The goal is to psych them out and send them running back to the place where the action is happening.
The third time, it's the same but full-blown visual or even physical hallucinations. Basically anything that might lure, scare, emotionally wound, etc. them into going back to the vicinity of the cabin.

 THE LOOP ► a note on replayability

left unbothered

sunrise

burnt

fall unconscious

reawaken in a perfectly undamaged cabin

CODE BY TESSISAMESS (patreon)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ He hears it, too - distantly, through nearly a foot of steel and polycarbonate and shatterproof glass. Countdown to automatic ejection, and he knows on instinct there's only one thing that could eject. A backwards glance tells him pretty clearly that there's no safety gate, no secondary portal to close. There's just this. There's just him.

Him, and nothing else. Bare walls, no panels, no buttons, no levers. Nothing he could even occupy his mind with trying in a useless bid to save his own life.

There is nothing but door, glass, airlock, and empty hallway.

Immediately, the flat of his palm starts banging against unforgiving, unemphatic door. ]

Hey- hey! Hello! Wait a second, I'm in here-

[ It doesn't go anywhere. Barely, barely even penetrates to the other side. Mace doesn't need to get his attention, Ian's wild-eyed staring through the glass at him the second he comes into view of the glass panel.

He can't really hear Mace- barely, just loud enough that he can sort of piece together the words through context. His name, break the manual seal, airlock.

Override. Manual control.

Negative, Mace. Failure to vent will result in catastrophic systems failure. Extreme hydrogen content in the airlock shaft will flood back into oxygen recycling. Explosive reaction in or around oxygen filtration will guarantee incapacitation of the ship. Chances of mission completion are less than once percent. Are you sure you want to override?

He's not a fucking astronaut or anything, but he's pretty sure that's a bad outcome. It roots him in place, shocks him still, and his mind instinctively starts turning over solutions. Problem solving. There is no opening the door. There is no leaving this airlock, save for when the airlock opens.

If he holds his breath, the vacuum of space will pull the air out and his lungs will rupture. If he exhales, it doesn't matter. Oxygen in the rest of his body will immediately expand. Liquid will vaporize - he'll lose his eyes and his tongue. After fifteen seconds, if he's still alive he'll pass out. After ninety, exposure will kill him. He will freeze solid, and then he'll crack apart.

Everything about that is fucking terrifying.

He rips his eyes away from Mace to frantically search the space behind him. Any suit, any cables, any ties, anything to hold onto for even the chance that he can stay inside the ship during the venting process. It may look a little bit more like he's having a panic attack, searching the walls with his fingers, digging at gaps, looking for anything that might open. The rest of this fucking airlock is empty. Not even a fucking support beam.

It rips from his throat without him even realizing it: ]

FUCK-

[ He’s already wrenching open the panel lock on the side, punching in the numbers to prepare for the moment Icarus gives him manual control, his thumb hovering over the red enter key. And then,

Failure to vent will result in catastrophic systems failure.

Mace’s head whips back up, looking through the panel as if from a million miles away, with eyes as wide and desperate as Ian’s are. A split second to catch that terrified, blank gaze and then Ian’s turning away, distraught and scrabbling at the walls around him, and Mace feels the distress seep through the walls and into his own chest, squeezing the breath out of his lungs, unforgiving and unrelenting.

No. No, he can’t fucking let himself get lost into the panic opening up under his feet like quicksand falling away into a void. There’s got to be something else. There’s gotta be another way, some loophole — some solution, some way out of this, anything.

There’s nothing else. The inside of the airlock is bare and white and empty, no insulation lining the walls to tear, no fucking emergency suit to put on, not even a load-bearing joist along the sides to grab onto. Not that that would make an iota of difference when the airlock opened and the temperature dropped, the pressure of a sudden vacuum pulling at Ian like —

Time stretches out in front of him, interminable seconds dripping down like endless water on top of his skull. Over his head, vibrating under his rooted feet, all around him and somehow getting louder as though the voice means to drill right into his ears: Chances of mission completion are less than one percent.

Less than one percent. Meaning statistically impossible, meaning might as well give up the moment he overrides the manual lock. They’d been concerned about the mission’s probability of success when the percentage was at ninety-one fucking percent, for Christ’s sake. God, the argument that had broken out when the oxygen gardens had taken a hit — and even then it wasn’t the mission’s success that had been under question but their ability to return home.

Home. Ten billion people. Humanity’s last chance. The success rate had never gone down below eighty at any point for the duration of sixteen months. We’ve mined all of Earth’s available resources, Capa’s voice echoing in his head as he stares into the gleaming, hideous insides of the airlock, unseeing. There’s not gonna be another bomb.

Less than one percent. ]

Ian?

[ Why is he bothering to talk. Fourteen inches of reinforced steel and synthetic thermoplastic between them, almost utterly soundproof. Ian won't be able to hear him. He'll only be able to see him, like Mace is seeing him now, his lips parting violently in profile as he curses.

Are you sure you want to override?

Mace's face spasms.

His fingers close, and so does his heart, into a fist. He slams it hard enough into the airlock door to shatter the bones, and somehow doesn't feel a single fucking thing. His other hand touches the edge of the panel, and there's nothing but despair and farewell in his gaze.

Manual override: unselected. Mission in jeopardy. Resuming computer control of Icarus II. Countdown to automatic ejection reinstated. T-minus sixty seconds. ]

[ Flat bare walls. Flat bare nothing. He makes it all the way down to the end of the goddamn thing, to the airlock door thinking maybe there's a fucking knob or a handle, but there's nothing. They retreat seamlessly into the wall panels, they leave nothing behind.

Mace will get a clear, completely silent view of Ian whirling around left, then right, then absolutely nowhere. Of lips parting, face contorting, teeth bared, and clearly yelling at nothing and no one in particular. If he can read lips, it isn't hard to pick up on the word fuck.

A hand passes over his mouth.

He reels himself in.

Looks back at the glass, the door, and what he can see of Mace's face through it.

Okay. Okay okay okay. Okay. Okay.

He paces back with enough momentum that he has to stop himself with his palms on the flat of it. He looks out, wide-eyed and lips parted, but he says nothing. What the fuck is there to say? He's not gonna beg. He heard that bitch, he knows the implication.

I had to make a choice between a crew member and — Earth.
A body guard protects one person. A prince protects a country.

Oh, god.

Forty seconds. Already? Already, he wasted twenty goddamn seconds just-- doing nothing, finding nothing, accomplishing nothing? ]

[ Mace can pick up on just about everything Ian’s saying. Yelling, hopeless and evidently loud, his face twisting with it.

It’s in vain, and the thought passes through him as anathema would, poison and bleak. Overhead, the countdown drones on like nails being driven into his head one by one as Ian turns back to the door, staring back into Mace’s eyes, his mouth open. There’s no sound but Mace already knows he’s not saying anything right now.

What can he say? What the fuck can either of them fucking say? Ian's not even pleading for anything, and the implication of that is like a knife in Mace's heart. He grinds his forehead to the glass, right where Ian’s face is in a muted thump — and light bursts behind his eyes like kaleidoscope, splitting into memories that he can’t understand and doesn’t care that he can’t.

In a shower, foreheads pressed together, Mace’s arm steady and strong against the small of Ian's back. The water falling around them like a veil.

In bed, Ian’s fingers at the back of his neck, holding their faces together just like this. Heat and touch, an ache flickering to life between his ribs.

In the coolant tank, liquid ice cutting into his skin like ten thousand shards. Ian screaming through a gag as he held the knife down against his wound. A kiss. A kiss. A kiss. I don't want you think I'm anything better than I am.

Mace locks gazes with Ian as the countdown hits twenty seconds, every line in his face etched with despair, shaking his head slowly. Doesn't look away because that's the least he can do: watch the decision he's made, all the way through. Stay with Ian, all the way through. ]

Ian.

[ Sorry. Perhaps the most useless word in the English language. It wouldn’t make a difference. He doesn’t say it, just says Ian's name again instead, soundless now even to his own ears. Ten seconds. ]

[ He watches. He tracks the way Mace's forehead presses against the glass, the flat stretch of skin against unyielding surface. The distress written in every line of it. He's numb, though. Dispassionate, almost, and unable to feel anything about the sorrow clearly running through him. His heart does not break, there is no regret, there is no need to comfort him.

He's floating. Detached by his own disbelief, his shock. Humans are the main characters in their own stories. What drives men to be willing to battle, to fight, is the inability to believe they'll actually die during it. Even if they think they know, even if they tell themselves I know I could die, I'm ready to die, at their core there's always a lingering piece of hope.

Death is almost always a surprise, even when you know it's coming.

Ten seconds.

Nine.

His mouth closes, lips pressing into a line. The first real pulse of feeling sets in finally, a thundering drum beat, reverberating percussion, pure despair in his chest threatening to choke him with a sob.

Eight. Seven.

It breaks, despite his best efforts to go out stoically. Shudders through him, makes his mouth spasm and contort into a pathetic sort of twist. If he were a good man, he'd turn his back to the door so Mace didn't have to watch him go. Didn't have to look him in the eyes.

It's just, if he's gonna go, the last thing he wants to see is another person.

Six.

He doesn't want to go alone.

Five.

He doesn't want to go at all.

Four.

The first tear streaks down his cheek.

Venting airlock in three, two-

Oh god, he doesn't want to die.

The doors open efficiently, with the softest sound of metal on metal that he hears for only a second. He does not exhale despite the fact that logically he knows it would hurt less if he did. He doesn't have the time to think that clearly. It's like plummeting into the sea, sucking down a breath because you know it could be your last. Time slows down, he thinks, or maybe it's that his mind speeds up.

He's pulled backward by his shoulders, by his spine. Sucked neatly and efficiently out with no dramatic to-do, no twisting, no groping. Just standing and then... honestly, it feels a little bit like falling. Like the door and the glass separating him from Mace is the sky, and he's looking up instead of forward as he plummets away from it into the dark, into the void, away from the light and the heat.

A sharp pain in his chest. A sharp pain in every muscle in his body. His vision goes black. His heart stops. All body heat is gone in seconds.

He cracks apart like a porcelain doll. Like a dropped teacup. ]

[ This is not the first time Mace has watched someone die. He knows what that last bubble of blood welling up in a man’s mouth looks like, his gaze searching hopelessly for somebody, anybody, to help. To stop it. Nothing else in his face but the frantic, animal desire to live, right until the very last second the light is doused out of his eyes.

It’s not the first time Mace has watched someone die, but it is the first time that someone has meant this much to him, and the way Ian’s mouth trembles into something twisted and shapeless rends his heart in two. The utter wretchedness in the face he’d held and kissed, brushed the hair out of.

His vision goes wet and hazy and he’s still mouthing Ian’s name as the countdown ends, like it means something, like it means anything at all.

Doesn’t mean anything. The one person he’d wanted to protect. He doesn’t blink.

Venting airlock in three, two, one.

The airlock opens and it’s over in a matter of seconds. The vast emptiness of space bursts apart in front of him, rips Ian out of the airlock so horrendously fast that Mace’s eyes can barely track the movement of his body as it plunges away from him into the dark. A maw opening up that devours Ian whole, until he’s not even a speck. And then that not-a-speck shatters into pieces, and Mace knows.

No. No, no — ]

—Nnnnh.

[ In the bleak grey of the master bedroom, Mace’s eyes wrench open, an ugly, formless sound still trapped in his throat, his heart pounding so hard and fast that for a moment he thinks it’s about to hammer its way right out of his chest. His left hand is fucking throbbing for some reason, fisted right next to the nightstand.

Mace swallows, trying to slow down his pulse in one slow breath and then another; he can feel where his tongue is mashed to the roof of his mouth, at the back of his front teeth; he pries his right hand away from the pillow it’s got in a death grip, raising twitching fingers to his cheeks, and when he draws them away they’re wet.

He was — why was he — ]

Ian?

[ A hoarse croak as he shifts up on one elbow, looking over to the other side of the bed that he’d somehow turned away from in the middle of the night, the blankets twisted around his ankles. ]

[ He's awake. He's awake at the same time that nn sound begins to peel from the back of Mace's throat, eyes snapping open like sudden headlights in the dark, wide and terrified and still. Speechless, the only sound being the parting of his lips and the sudden sucking in of a breath too sharp to be a gasp.

He's on his back staring straight up at the ceiling, deep dark wood that almost looked black and vast for a second. Stretching out to nothing. He wasn't sure, he wasn't-- he doesn't recognize it for what it is until his name falls from Mace's lip.

He'd been frozen - metaphorically speaking. His body's warm enough on the mattress beneath his half of a quilt, but his muscles were locked. Every single one of them tense and rigid, seized up like electric shock, heart hammering away rapidly in his chest.

He felt the pain in his lungs. He felt the pain in his body.

He was expecting to crack apart, and it's startling that he isn't. That he hasn't. That wild surprise is still on his face when Mace turns. He'll catch Ian uncomprehending, struggling to figure out why he's still in one piece, tear tracks down his cheek and chest pulsing like a panic attack in progress. ]

[ His first thought is: they’re being attacked, and his eyes immediately tear away from the fear in Ian’s tear-streaked face to the rest of the bedroom, eyes scanning the emptiness rapidly even as he throws off the sheets and swings his legs over to the floor.

Nothing. No one. They’re alone, they’re. Safe. Fine. Except for the rapid rise and fall of Ian’s chest, the way he’s sucking in air like he’s going into a panic attack, and Mace’s attention is right back on him in the next second. ]

Hey, hey, Ian, calm — Ian. I’m here.

[ Back on the bed now, one knee dipping into the mattress as he moves toward Ian, slow and with one hand outstretched placatingly. The towel around his waist had fallen off some time in the night, but he doesn’t even notice it, too wrapped up in the pallor of Ian’s face, the unmistakeable terror in his eyes.

It hadn’t been just him, then. Both of them. Crying. A nightmare? Had to be, had to — fuck, why can’t he remember? Mace has never particularly wanted to be able to remember his dreams, but something tells him this hadn’t been a normal one, even for a nightmare. And if he knew, then he could say something. Do something, other than reach out to touch Ian’s face in reassurance, or at least try to.

His hand freezes before it gets there, though, and by the faint, greyish light that’s in the room now, he can see his left hand’s swollen and bruised, an indent at the side of his palm like he’d —

Smashed it into the corner of the night table. What the fuck kind of nightmare did he — did they — just have? ]

[ That's enough, really, to break the spell. The words, the sight of something other than dark ceiling, and... frankly, just time for it to wear off. For him to blink himself back to the present, for the lingering brain chemistry of sleep to fade out and show him in retrospect how unreal that dream felt compared to this concrete reality.

His chest slows, eyes flickering up to Mace's face, then down off to the side toward nothing in particular.

Despite that, he reaches back. Wraps his hand around Mace's wrist like it's a need, like he's got to confirm concretely that it's tangible. Warm. Within reach. Once he's got it, is other hand presses into the mattress to start pushing himself back up toward the headboard to something mostly upright. His knees draw up off the mattress too, lifting to form low angles beneath the quilt. ]

I, I-

[ He starts, less a stutter and more the syllable dragging out in joined duplicate. ]

Shit- fuck, it's okay. Sorry. It was...

[ Just a dream, except he's never had a dream that vivid before. Never felt pain so realistically in his sleep before. ]

[ The touch to his wrist brings him out of his brief stint of wondering, familiar and grounding. His pulse throbs under Ian's curled fingers, and it's almost some kind of a reminder to his own subconscious, or from it.

He feels an echoing surge of protectiveness that he's not sure is entirely due to the words tumbling out of Ian's mouth, but the sound of them has him consoling him in a manner that's instinctive. ]

Shh, hey. It's okay. We're okay.

[ It was just a dream, he's about to add on, but the way it's rattled Ian (and himself, judging by the goddamn tears on his face — fuck, he can't remember the last time he cried while awake, forget in his sleep) ... he doesn't want to attach the word "just" to it.

He sits right next to where Ian's pulling himself into a seated position, Mace's legs bent at a strange, half-fold underneath him as he does so. Almost cross-legged, except one knee is drawn up. Brings his other hand up and cups Ian's face properly, now, a thumb swiping underneath his eyes gently as he leans in to try and look into them. Gauge where Ian's mind is at. ]

You with me?

[ It does take an extra second for his eyes to properly lock onto Mace's. Like they were unfocused and distant, like seeing was an afterthought to something else playing out in his mind. He's snapped back, though, and immediately attentive again.

Lifts his free hand to press it over the one Mace has on his cheek. ]

Yeah.

[ Breathy, but honest enough. He's here, he's with you. He knows where he is and he's getting over it, it was just... it fucking rattled him.

He searches Mace's expression for a deeper understanding, a more intimate knowledge of what's got him so fucked up, but he can't seem to pick it out of the rest of his expression. ]

Did you-- was that-- did you dream anything?

[ Are joint dreams a thing? Is that something that can be manipulated into being? Fuck, he doesn't know right off, but Mace has dried tears and busted knuckles. Must mean he dreamed something unusual too, right? ]

[ A wavering beat, and then Ian's eyes are coming back into focus from wherever it was he'd gone in his head just now. Or. Whatever they'd been seeing that wasn't in the here and now.

His other hand covers the one gently framing his face, and the warmth of it pulls a slow, deep exhale out of Mace. Something relieved and relaxing, taking the tension out of him as his heartbeat starts to slow down properly, now that he knows Ian's with him. ]

Yeah?

[ Mace can see the way Ian's eyes are flickering across his face, looking for something that he's not sure he's able to find there; tries to school his expression into something reassuring nonetheless. Knows it might not be a success, considering the wetness drying on his cheeks. So much for being Ian's rock. ]

I think we both did. But fuck if I can remember what.

[ Quietly, with something that's intended as humour but only comes out as a rasp. He wets his lips and offers a wan quirk of his lips at Ian, stroking from his damp cheekbone to the side of his temple, and then back again. ]

Been that way since I was a teen. Can't remember dreams for shit.

[ If he could read minds, he'd point out in an instant that crying wouldn't make him any less of a rock - especially after a dream like that. Hell, he might be a little offended if there weren't waterworks on his behalf.

Except.

Mace doesn't remember what the crying's for. Or, well, that's assuming he even had the same dream at all - could be totally unrelated, could be his own hellish nightmare. Could be that they're both just having the worst fucking dreams individually.

His hand slides gently away from the back of Mace's, and it's followed by a small shake of his head. Lowered eyes. ]

Yeah, you're better off, trust me.

[ Tonight at least. Wishes he shared the affliction. ]

Doesn't matter. Just a fucking nightmare.

[ Which isn't exactly a shock, considering their last two days.

Outside, grey pre-dawn light makes its way through the slits in the dresser slats they've nailed up. The door's still boarded shut, too.

He changes the subject, though his voice sounds tentative. ]

I guess it worked.

[ The boards. They're still in the same room and it's nearly sunrise. That at least brings a little relief. Enough that he drops Mace's wrist as well so he can slowly palm-scoot himself back down onto the mattress.

He's not a morning person. He's not a wake up quickly person. He's a twenty more minutes two snooze buttons, sleep in on the weekends and drag out the process person.

He likes the comfort of dreaminess at the cusp of waking up. He likes lazy intimacy, morning sex.

This wasn't exactly his ideal start to the day. He'd like to at least pretend, go through the motions of a slow rise - at least until he's really over it all. Melt into the mattress for a little bit. ]

[ It’s plain as day that Ian remembers the nightmare he’d had — the nightmare that both of them might’ve had together, and that doesn’t seem far-fetched at all considering where they are. If the hallucinogens they’re being pumped full of through the vents are enough to make their realities twist until they’re seeing fucked up shit in the waking world, it’s entirely possible they’re being shown similar dreams as well.

It’s also plain to see that he’s not going to be telling Mace any of it; it’s in the way his gaze lowers, in the subtle shake of his head, back and forth. His voice. Doesn't matter.

The warmth of his hand disappears from Mace’s wrist and in the next second, Ian’s directing their conversation to a different direction. Mace takes in his expression, and then takes his cue from him. At least for the time being. ]

It really did, huh.

[ Musingly, as Ian lowers himself back down into the mattress, Mace automatically sliding his right hand underneath his back to help ease him down, mindful of the still-healing wound going down his chest.

He's not gonna be able to forget the look of mingled horror and incomprehension in Ian’s face in a hurry. But Ian’s right; they made it through the night, and that means nailing the doors and window down gave them some semblance of safety.

Which is an encouraging thought, and Mace wipes the back of his bruised hand across his face, getting rid of the last of the moisture there, before leaning over Ian’s face for a careful, lingering kiss to the corner of his lips. Something casual but intimate, in the sort of way that usually comes with weeks of knowing somebody else, instead of the intense double-time bonding they’ve been through.

It’s their first morning after. Mace isn’t exactly a stickler for sentimentality, but he feels something unhappy smoulder in his chest at the thought of being unable to provide Ian something better than a godawful nightmare. They should be having their round two right about now. Something slow and hot to tug Ian sweetly out of sleep, instead of this.

Well, he can feed him, at the very least. ]

Take it easy for a bit, lemme get you something.

[ They’ve still got the little burner and plate that Ian had made the before, the matches ready, and Mace sets about heating up breakfast. Until they can venture back to the kitchen, it looks like it’ll have to be soup again, chicken this time — but they’ve got bread, too, and cheese. And powdered coffee.

Once he's done, he makes a spread of it on makeshift tray from the previous night, and brings it over. Naked, because he hadn't bothered to put the towel back on, but hopefully that's a plus in Ian's book. Softly, in case he's dozed off again: ]

Breakfast.

[ It's those small things like that, like the hand slipping under his back without even a second thought on Mace's part, the kiss to the corner of his mouth. Those are the kinds of things that are breaking his heart. They're instinctive, they're touching, they're the kind of caring Ian's not used to having in the slightest.

Take it easy to Ian apparently means laying on his side, curling gently as much as his stomach will allow, and watching Mace through his eyelashes while he goes about prepping. Can't put his finger on when it is he started drifting again, only that he'd been lulled back into the start of sleep by the time it's over.

His eyes flicker open and his head lifts up a little like a groundhog peering out of its hole. ]

Hey, is that coffee?

[ Raspy with sleep, priorities clear. Coffee comes before all. Coffee comes before people. He wants coffee more than air, please. ]

[ Dozed off seems to be about right — but Ian perks up at the scent of coffee like some small, sleepy creature nosing out of its nest. In his pile of blankets and the soft folds of the robe still around him, he really looks like one, and it’s cute as ...

Fuck. When was the last time he thought somebody was cute? ]

Just the three-in-one powdered stuff, but it smells like the real deal.

[ —and Mace ends up having to hide his grin into his soup at the sight. He’s drinking it straight out of the can he’d heated it in, making it do double-duty as both his morning mug of something hot, and his breakfast, because he's a godless heretic who has no strong feelings about coffee one way or the other.

Looks like Ian's got a taste for it, though, and Mace is glad he had the presence of mind to nab it, seeing the way Ian likes it. Their fingers brush together as Mace hands over the steaming little cup, careful to make sure Ian's got a good grip on it before letting go and taking a seat next to the tray between them. Pauses and then reaches over to pick up the towel he’d left earlier, placing it in his lap not out of any sense of modesty, but practicality. ]

Grabbed a box of it; it’s all yours.

[ Two weeks ago he'd have scoffed at three in one like the coffee snob he is. Well, if you can call an avid Starbucks fan a snob, really, but still. Now, after two or three? Three? Days of hell, he'll take literally anything resembling it.

In stark contrast to Mace, his soup goes ignored in favor of wrapping both hands around his coffee and sitting up against the headboard to drink it.

He realizes in hindsight Mace was nude, and let it be a testament to just how deep the need runs. Nudity second, coffee first right now. It's either wake up, sex or it's wake up, no sex, coffee, maybe sex. The first twenty minutes decide that.

Now that it's in his hands and on his lips, his eyes sweep over Mace's torso appreciatively.

If Mace remembered his dreams, Ian might say something along the lines of, hey, you look like a guy who shot me out of an airlock one time. Somehow make it flirty. Downplay how the back of his mind's still uncomfortable over the whole dream.

Instead, maybe it's time to get serious. ]

We can't stay here.

[ He says finally, gently solemn. ]

We can't just keep going to sleep and waking up here hoping nothing happens. At some point, we need to pack and try to make it past the fog.

Edited 2020-06-09 01:48 (UTC)

[ That appreciative once-over gets another grin out of Mace, more open this time — but it fades away with Ian’s next words, taking in the implications of leaving. Ian’s right, of course. Staying here isn’t feasible, despite whatever must be awaiting them out in the fog; he vaguely remembers the compromise he’d asked of Ian two days ago, to stay here until he'd healed somewhat.

In that time, he’d also nearly fucking strangled him.

What were the chances of that happening again? They’d been allowed a day’s reprieve — enough time for them to feel safe together, but long enough to also ensure that they were emotionally compromised in a far worse way than before. Maybe that had been the point; he doesn’t think their captors were banking on the two of them fucking, exactly, but … developing a deeper bond meant a possible psychological weakness to exploit.

It had been one thing to come to lucidity with his hands around Ian’s throat when their interactions had been more or less platonic. And if he were to do it now? Knowing the taste of Ian's mouth, the sounds he made when he came, how it felt to hold him in his arms?

Guilt is a bitter tang in his mouth as his eyes drop to Ian’s throat, briefly. Again that surge of protectiveness that he can't identify as being wholly organic, this time shot through with a strange pain. Then he’s nodding, downing the rest of his soup in two more gulps. ]

No time like the present. We can get packing after breakfast, start making tracks by noon.

[ And something of what he's feeling shows up in his face as he looks back up at Ian, a bit like he's been thwapped on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. ]

How's your wound?

[ Amused as he is by the look, there's still a gentle firmness to his tone. ]

Fine.

[ Really, he means it. His throat doesn't scratch up his words anymore, hasn't since the swelling went down the day before. There's bruising, the flesh is a little tender, and swallowing anything thicker than soul might suck, but... throat's fine.

Stomach is... manageable. It's gross looking, a pink and flesh toned marbling pattern raised and flaking in places. There's nothing sexy about healing burns, and he can feel pieces crack or distort the skin around it when he bends forward or twists too far. It sucks, but it's a level of pain he can tolerate if he has to push it too far. Climbing, running, he could manage.

He'll want to keep it covered, keep air and dirt as far away as possible so the scabs don't get infected, but that's... more surface level. Less risky than that deep gut-wound possibility. So fucking glad he cauterized, now that the pain's a memory.

He opens his mouth again to speak, but before he can manage anything there's an extremely polite knock at the bedroom door.

He freezes like a deer in the goddamn headlights. ]

[ Of course. As soon as they expressed an intent to get the hell out of dodge, along came a fucking spider.

Almost a hundred percent chance that whoever had come knocking was one of their former medical acquaintances; it was too polite, too unassuming. And if they're still listening in on the two of them in here ...

It gives Mace an idea, the sudden spike in adrenaline tempered by it. He sees the way Ian's frozen up, and making firm eye contact, shakes his head once. Left to right, slowly. Puts a finger to his lips and then nods over toward the window, an unspoken direction: get over there, getting to his own feet simultaneously. Knots the towel around his waist and then keeps on talking as if nothing's amiss, because that's the idea — play dumb to get a few more minutes of time. ]

That's a relief. [ He means this, though. Thank god Ian had healed up somewhat; thank god, too, that they hadn't their little visitor when they were both unaware and asleep, no planning time and fresh out of a nightmare. ] Maybe we can stay a little longer.

[ Spoken as he picks up the hammer, the screwdriver, and the book of matches. Hands off the screwdriver to Ian, heading for the window with the hammer ready to start prying apart the nails as quick as he can. Priority is getting Ian out through the window first.

If, that is, the space outside was devoid of zombies. ]

[ Slowly, numbly, Ian shifts himself off the bed. Edges around toward the window - somewhere off left of the frame proper, in case something punches through the goddamn wood and snatches him by the throat like a horror movie.

His heart rate spikes. Breathing goes a little short. All from a fucking knock.

His mind's eye can see the vacuum of space, a receding door getting smaller, four doctors over top of him cutting him open while the rest of him cracks like glass. Fuck, shit, fuck, now is not the time. Keep it together.

Mace no sooner pries out the first nail than a polite knock comes from the window right before him. Ian jerks, startled and jumpy, to peel away from it with his hands tightening around the handle of that screwdriver.

There is no banging. The door does not suddenly burst open the way it had that first day. No rattling on the hinges, no creaking to indicate they're somehow pushing the nails through.

Just the knock, and then the quiet. ]

[ Well, fuck. But in a way, Mace should've seen it coming; if he had to close in on somebody, he'd do it the same way. Trammelled in on both sides.

Out of the corner of his eye as he continues to pry out the next nail, this time with a growing scowl on his face due to the realization that there is one of those fuckers on the other side, he catches a glimpse of the way Ian startles. It's more than just out of surprise, of course it is; it's dread and panic and the memory of the last time they'd heard these knocks, and what had happened afterward.

Mace pauses, taking a step back and to the side, so he's closer to Ian. Doesn't look his way just yet because he's thinking hard of what's the best way to do this. Either way it'll be bloody; his job is keeping Ian out of the mess as best as he can.

Through the door means being trapped in with no exit. Window's the lesser of the two evils, because at least that way, they have somewhere to fight their way toward. ]

Ian, I need you to make a small bottle of tequila. Can you do that?

[ In an undertone, stepping up close so he can say it right into his ear; low and steady, almost calming, his free hand going out to grip Ian's shoulder bracingly. ]

[ He thinks - and it isn't a great leap to make, frankly - that he might have some deep issues developing. Post traumatic stress disorder, something involuntarily seizing control of his bodily responses despite his mind's frantic effort to stay calm. Stay in that level place of rational decision-making. It's beyond choice, though, beyond control, the way his breathing's picking up and the panic's flaring bright and the way it's making him lightheaded.

Fuck, fuck. Deliberate breathing. Concentrate on your breath. Slow inhale, slow exhale, do not pass out, do not throw up.

Mace's body blocking out the room is a welcome, grounding thing. Familiar smell, trusted shape, easy low voice that pulls him out of his head for a second.

Small bottle of- ]

Are you gonna fuckin' molotov them?

[ He breathes, incredulous.

Well, why the fuck not, right?

Palm up. Dim blue glow. Slower this time than before, because the glass has to come first and then the liquid sifts between the glass's molecular structure --

More than one component is time consuming, but he manages it. Twisty cap and everything. ]

Good man.

[ That is precisely what he had in mind, and Mace's fingers squeeze down in appreciation this time, adding a reassuring little shake at the end as he searches Ian's expression intently, before he moves back to the window.

He wishes there were more time on hand for him to stay with Ian for a second, to firmly lift him out of the mental quicksand his body's fear response is pulling him into, but out of everything else, it's time they're strapped most for. Time that's gonna make the difference when he pulls down the plank and lobs a burning bottle at whatever the fuck is on the other side.

Hopefully a task to concentrate on, something palpable and immediate, work that he can do with his hands and push the focus of his mind toward, will help ground Ian in the present.

Last thing to do is tear a scrap of cloth from the sheets to douse into the tequila, and there's just two nails left to pull when Mace turns back to the corner Ian's in, holding up the plank on either side. ]

Done?

[ Mouthed out, with a hand out to tell Ian to stay where he is. Fuck, even worse than the knocks is the expectant, looming silence that's now on either side of them, at the door and window both. ]

[ He nods, mostly because he doesn't trust himself to speak. It helped a little, kept him from getting blurry around the edges of his vision. Kept his hands steady while he worked, dousing the thing and plucking up his pack of matches. He fists them tightly, and though there's a set to his shoulders it's pretty clear he's out of his depth.

He has never, in any daydream, ever thought he'd have to fucking molotov something. He's ready to pass them over the second Mace makes it clear he'll be doing the chucking instead of Ian.

Convinced himself he's gonna fuck up and drop the matches somehow in the moment of truth or something equally as devastating.

But he's ready.

They're ready.

On three, a nod, a silent countdown, and--

There's nothing on the other side of the window. Not a goddamn thing but open space and trees and undisturbed mud. ]

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