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

[ Again, the warning to not open his eyes. The same tone, the same fear, mixed with a new exigency as Ian’s hand stays implacable and firm over his eyes. Mace couldn't see even if he tried to like this, can’t even move where he is beyond a few wriggles and the freedom of exactly one bleeding hand, the other still uselessly clutching the hammer.

With his shoulder incapacitated, he’s little more than a pinned butterfly underneath the weight of Ian’s body, if butterflies wore bathrobes. That doesn’t mean Ian can’t see, though — or that he hasn’t already seen, or at least sensed enough to know what it is that’s after them. The danger that lies in looking at it.

He’s gonna fully trust Ian's call on this one, and Mace makes a soft hum of acquiescence, but it’s barely audible to his own ears. Nothing more than a vibration, his limbs still wound up tight like a spring, waiting for —

Whispers. Again. Fucking closer this time, echoing from every goddamn direction as if they’re being reined in by a circle of them, and his body gives a sudden, jarring wrench at the sound of Ian’s voice added to the mix, even as he hears his Ian swear sharply overhead. Screaming, fuck. Ian held hostage right in the middle of it all, only a few feet away while Mace —

The force of it judders through him, almost hard enough to dislodge Ian in its urgency, and Mace has to remind himself, it’s not him.

It’s not him. Right? It is Ian holding him down, isn’t it, it’s —

Mace turns his face in a tiny, almost entirely ineffectual movement that nonetheless accomplishes one very important thing. The tip of his nose just brushes against a lock of nearby hair, and the sweet, faint scent of sandalwood hits him.

Relief ripples through him, properly this time, and even the sound of his own voice doesn’t disturb it.

The sound of his father’s, however.

A muscle shifts in Mace’s jaw and he has to actively fight the taste of acrimony that rises up like bile at the all-too familiar sound of rage, right out of his childhood. It burns the back of his throat, bitter and sharp. First Cassie, now this. No wonder. No fucking wonder Ian was in this state; Christ only knew who he was hearing, what significance the whispers targeted at him held.

His hand gropes blindly at Ian's back, the palm patting between his shoulder blades as Mace realizes Ian’s folded over him tight and protective, a little ways up. Means his reach becomes a little clumsy as he cups the back of Ian's head, fingers curling into his hair. ]

Not real. It's not. Ian. Okay?

[ A staccato mumble into the soft patch of skin that he thinks is right below Ian's ear. ]

[ Ian's not hearing his and his alone, not trapped in his own private bubble of whispers. It's all there, aired out, these private sounds made audible to him. He can hear Mace's father, a raging storm - doesn't know how he knows that's who it is, it just sounds like... it sounds like it fits, it sounds like the kind of bad-father energy he's heard before. Students with bruises. Students with black eyes. Students that are over the age of 18 so there's no real legal recourse, but he pulls them into his office to softly talk about their options anyway.

It'd be a lie to say his attention didn't shift almost immediately back to his mother.

I miss you, baby. I miss you so much. I just wanna see those pretty eyes one more time. Ian, I love you. Ian, why won't you look at me?

Mace's voice startles him, a sort of abrupt spasm that suggests maybe he'd been getting a little lost in this. A little coaxed, a little goaded. ]

I know.

[ He manages, hoarse. A little wrecked. Certain, but shaky. ]

I know, I know it's not, it can't be, she's dead.

[ But so were those doctors, weren't they? Dead and walking. Dead and chasing. Dead and performing fucking surgery, so why couldn't they bring her back too?

The thought disgusts him, the visceral wrongness of it. The thought of her frail and emaciated body, eyes sewn shut, some horror that isn't his mother anymore.

(But at the same time, he misses her so fucking much...)

Twigs snap around them, the sound of footsteps. The sound of something pacing, fast and irritated, back and forth. Agitation in the cadence of it. The whispers get louder, a gaggle of voices to a cacophony of shouts.

Fucking look at me, if you don't look at me I'm going to tear your fucking head off, if you don't turn around right now I'm going to cut you open and take you apart, fucking look at me.

It's not any voice he knows. It's not the way any human ought to sound. It's wrong. He shakes, a shudder in his resolve, foundation cracking and fraying a little at the seams. The hand on Mace's eyes, however, is steady as a fucking rock. Neither Mace nor god nor the thing at his back could peel that off him right now.

At some point, he doesn't know when, he started talking. Started muttering like he's trying to drown it all out with his own words, started speaking to convince himself, or maybe- not even that, he doesn't even fucking know why he's doing it, how long, how to stop, just a barely-audible litany; it's not real, it's not fucking real, if it could do anything, if it could do that it would've done it already, fuck, I just wanna go home, god fucking damn it, it's not real-- ]

[ She’s dead, and Jesus, the way Ian’s voice comes out ragged and shaking … it solves the identity of the woman pleading to see Ian’s eyes, the wording so intimate and tender that it had already been narrowed down to only a couple possibilities, even as Mace tried not to listen to it. Tried to afford Ian some sort of privacy, despite the fact that there was none to be found.

I’m sorry, Mace thinks, maybe whispers it. Doesn’t know because he can’t hear it. His hand tightens in Ian’s hair, knows he’s probably messing it up with blood and traces of bark, and doesn’t care. If he had the leverage to curl around Ian right back, wrap both arms around him — cover both Ian's ears with his hands —

But it’s Ian who’s determined to protect him this time, and he's doing it in more ways than he’s aware of, beyond the unflinching grip of his hand across Mace’s eyes.

Mace wouldn’t be able to ignore the whispering and screaming this easily without Ian’s presence centering him again, holding him down as surely as the weight of his body. It wouldn’t have been right away, maybe, but sooner or later it would start getting to him, burrowing into his brain like an evil worm. Cassie's voice, not whispering, but fucking hissing at him. I got rid of it because it was yours.

The sudden echo of footsteps around them have Mace twitching hard under Ian at the restless, implicit threat in them. Back and forth, like a monstrous cat pacing inside a cage. Or outside it, trying to get at the prey inside. And then drowning them out, a voice rising to a distorted, demonic howl —

The hairs on Mace’s neck and arms stand straight up because it’s not human and it’s not even fucking pretending to be, the syllables mutilated and discordant in a way that strikes a nauseating and alien fear in the pit of his stomach. There’s an answering tremor in his body at the way Ian shudders over him, and an ugly, creeping dread starts to coil itself around his lungs.

Then he hears it. Something right in his ear. Ian’s voice, except it’s not — not the thing at the outer edge of the invisible circle around them. It’s Ian, talking to himself, the same words over and over, talking himself into a dizzying circle that sounds increasingly desperate. I just wanna go home, and that —

Pulls Mace right back out of where his mind was headed, and the fury that floods him this time is cold and steadying. What the fuck is he doing? No, really, what the fuck is he — ]

Got my first — my first real six-string, bought it at the five-and-dime. Played it til my fingers bled.

[ Quiet but growing louder with each halting word, he tries to sing where his face is held almost immobile, near the crook of Ian's neck. Tries to do something to help drown out the hell wagons circling them, tighter and tighter.

It probably sounds beyond fucking stupid. The first song that comes to mind, and he's barely holding the tune together through his gritted teeth, because Mace isn't big on music. Mace isn't big on anything that isn't tangible and practical and nailed-the-fuck-down, but this is something that became a part of him when he was small, and the world was still new. ]

Ain't no use complaining when you got a job to do. Spent my evenings down at the drive-in, and that's when I met you. Standing on your mama's porch, you told me that you'd wait forever. And when you held my hand —

[ I knew that it was now or never. He trails off, because there's a sudden dead silence around them, not a thing rustling, nothing creaking. Nothing howling. ]

[ Ian's voice falters, tapers off, surprised into silence by Mace, singing. It's the absurdity of it, maybe. The fact that it comes from nowhere, that he's never heard Mace sing before, that he's doing it now over the sound of something at his back threatening to rip his spine out and drag him into the dark. It's the fact that he knows the word, that it's summer of '69 and he doesn't... understand...

It's silent. It's still. There's only the sound of Ian's shaky breathing, too loud even to his own ears let alone Mace's probably, considering his mouth his close to ear. Three or four or five absolutely silent seconds pass.

The tight grip on Mace's eyes loosens a little. His breathing gets quieter. He starts to tentatively shift, and--

--abruptly, the blue glow from his wrists and his hands starts up, probably bright enough to make it through Mace's closed eyelids, a little. He's not summoning anything, not tangibly, nothing except fucking knowledge but that's not how his gift works. That's not how it's ever worked before.

But it does something now, and he knows with sudden certainty: ]

It's a trick. It's still there.

[ The tightening of his hand, the defiant setting of his shoulders, the words more accusatory and decisive than afraid.

It earns a new sound. It's as profound and as all-encompassing as the silence. It's as expansive, as big. It's a scream that distorts from organic to inorganic. It turns itself into a low tone like a singing bowl, but a thousand times too loud. The kind of loud you can feel in your chest, the kind of loud ringing you get when you're too close to an explosion or a firing gun.

Temporarily deafening, legitimately, so that for a second when it stops Ian isn't... sure, because he couldn't hear anything over it and now he can't hear anything in general. Not his own breathing, not the rustling, not Mace below him.

But the blue's faded out, and the atmosphere changes. Less heavy. Less occupied. Less charged.

Slowly, he peels himself back. Lifts himself off of Mace's body and onto his knees instead. Flicking his eyes to the treeline on instinct, even though it- even though the idea was not to look. Has to remind himself of that, and turn his attention to the guy below him.

He says, you're bleeding. He can't hear it, only knows he said it because he feels it in his throat. ]

[ Stupid though it might’ve been, that off-tune, prosaic attempt at singing does the trick. Pulls Ian’s attention away from the maelstrom of sound around them, from the spiral of his own words, and once that’s accomplished, Mace falls back into his own silence. This time, able to better keep an ear out for whatever’s in the background, punctuated intermittently by Ian’s harsh breathing.

The grip he’s got across Mace’s eyes starts to go lax, just a little, and Ian stirs atop him. Mace keeps his eyes closed, just in case, his hand tensing where fingers are loosely tangled in Ian’s hair — uses the temporary lack of vision to heighten his ability to feel what’s around them without it, something extrasensory and out of reach of the big five.

There isn’t movement. There isn’t heat. There sure as hell isn’t anymore sound, but there’s something telling him to keep still, a presence he’s picking up on that Ian’s probably also —

It’s still there.

Blue light flares behind his eyelids, dim but entirely noticeable, and Mace has to stop himself from flinching. That promptly goes out the window in the next second as what feels like an unearthly tsunami of sound washes over them, seemingly envelops them as it goes down a steep, hurtling drop in octaves, the vibrations somehow going through them and around them at the same time.

Like a sonic boom, like a gun going off next to your goddamn ear, and it has the same effect. Goes past ringing in the inner ear and straight into completely soundless territory, and isn’t that just fucking great, being blinded and deafened at the same damn —

It’s only when his eyes open of their own accord, that Mace remembers he’s not actually blind and deaf. Or, well. Not the first one, anyway, because he can see Ian kneeling right next to him, see his lips moving as he speaks.

Disorientation’s left him unable to read them, though, and he just shakes his head blearily as he pushes himself up with his uninjured arm. Finally lets the hammer drop from his other hand, which —

Fuck, the other shoulder — it needs to be popped back in, and Mace’s hand goes to his forearm automatically, trying to alleviate the weight of it. Okay, he can do this. Reducing a dislocated shoulder. Just gotta. Take a minute or so to do it, because without the use of his dominant arm, he's about as useful as a three-legged horse. ]

Ian, I gotta ...

[ Oh, right. Ian wasn't gonna be able to hear him either. He holds up a finger instead, and then picks up the hammer to pass it to Ian first — well, one of them needed to be armed. Yes, pun intended. ]

[ Mace shakes his head, Ian doesn't try again. Yeah, he knows, him too. No point even trying to mouth it right now, they're both too fucked up. A shade shy of the same kind of disoriented they were the day Mace choked him out, a little too unfocused to pick up on morse code. Same dance, different song.

It's only once he sees Mace's limp arm, the way he sports it, that he remembers what he did. Ripped the guy down from a fucking branch, it's a wonder it's only his arm he hurt. That he didn't break his nose on the branch too, that Ian didn't give him a concussion, that his head didn't slam into it or into one of the many rocks and branches on the ground around them.

He takes the hammer, and there's a pretty clear, slightly distressed look of apology on his face. Discontent, flickering from Mace's eyes to the shoulder he's triaging.

He panicked.

I'm sorry. ]

[ He can’t read lips just yet but the look on Ian’s face when he passes him the hammer, that reaches Mace clear enough. It’s not a good expression, and his attention is diverted to the rest of Ian’s body for a second, taking in his posture and looking for signs of injury or bleeding.

Finding none at the moment, his gaze sweeps back to Ian’s, mystified. Which is when he catches the way Ian’s eyes are going from his shoulder to his face and back again, and …

Another head shake, firmer this time, followed up by a thumbs-up. It’s okay, and it really is. Or will be, once he pops it back in, which is the lesser of any number of evils he might’ve fallen prey to if Ian hadn’t pulled him out of that tree in time. His own fault for reaching out to catch himself with a fucking hammer, of all things. Then again, if he hadn’t, he would've broken the fall with his face. Which is already swelling up thanks to Casper the unfriendly fuck, back at the cabin.

A deep breath, a moment to reach behind him with his arm angled toward the opposite shoulder, reaching for it with his elbow at a ninety-degree flexion. On the count of three, except you did it on the count of two so that your body wasn’t expecting the — ]

Motherfucker.

[ It hurts almost as much on the way back in, and Mace focuses on rotating it gingerly for a moment, trying to see his range of motion. His other hand reaches out to absently pat the closest part of Ian he can reach, glad that it's covered in fabric, that Ian hadn't been wandering vulnerable without it. ]

[ Jesus, there's just something so absolutely fucking absurd about getting a thumbs up from a man in a robe with a dislocated shoulder in the middle of the fucking woods while they're both deaf. A huff of a laugh escapes him, obviously neither of them hear it. And then another, and then another, and he's got to turn around so Mace doesn't think he's a goddamn lunatic.

He loses his fucking shit. Hysterical laughter that shakes his shoulders, that tips his head back, a mess of filthy bloody curly hair the only thing that hides his expression probably.

God fucking damn it, this is insane. This whole thing is insane. He's losing his mind. Mace is wearing a fucking robe. They're gonna die and Mace is wearing a fucking robe.

That hysteria, that dark and wild amusement, it's still in his expression when the touch makes him compose himself. Makes him turn around, one hand passing over his mouth to try and hide it.

Okay.

Alright.

Time to focus.

He gives Mace a nod, then touches the skin of his chest for all that it can communicate - bare skin.

His hand glows blue. Making you a shirt.

He offers the hammer back out with his left while his right knits together the same plain white fabric as what he's wearing now.

It only comes in one size: his. The's got broad shoulders, though, and a wide chest. Should be alright.

The shoes on the other hand - his eyes dip down to Mace's feet, to compare. ]

Edited 2020-06-11 01:49 (UTC)

[ Probably for the best that Mace is focused on adjusting his shoulder, because if he’d been mystified before, that laughing fit would’ve bamboozled the hell out of him. As it is, Mace’s fingers land somewhere in the region of Ian’s knee, and even from there, he can feel tiny tremors pass through, like Ian’s shuddering.

It makes him look up sharply, and it's just in time to see Ian turn back around with a hand raised to his lips, his eyes —

Huh.

For a moment, Mace wonders if maybe there’s a joke he’s not quite getting. Something on his face? Besides the shiner? It gets a quizzical frown out of him as Ian hands him back the hammer, but there’s no explanation forthcoming, considering neither of ‘em can hear each other — just warm fingertips against his chest, and a familiar blue glow that Mace hadn’t counted on ever seeing again.

The thought sobers him, his eyes on the shirt knitting itself into existence, almost missing the look that Ian sends toward his feet. Then he’s shrugging off the robe in the next second and letting it pool around his waist, reaching into the pocket as he does so.

Pulls out that lonely packet of instant coffee. Bright red, in a world of brown and grey, and there’s something incredibly soft around the corners of his mouth and his downcast eyes as he gently grabs Ian’s free hand, placing the packet on the palm before curling Ian’s fingers around it with his own.

Squeezes down just a little, rubbing his thumb over the back of Ian’s knuckles.

And then he’s sliding the shirt on, a bit awkward because of his shoulder, before using the hammer to scrawl a word into the soil next to them: socks. Wiggles his toes pointedly after the fact. He wears elevens, but he can't imagine shoes will be easy to make. Better they find some sort of shelter first. ]

[ He can't explain - even if they could both hear and he had all the time in the world, he couldn't explain the irrational laughter that bubbled its way out of his chest. Not without some kind of fucking therapist there to help him unpack it.

It's just--

It's fucking insane. This is fucking insane. This entire day, this entire place, the entire surreal absurd experience is so fucking insane he can't help it.

Mace is a grounding force, as always. The one sure consistent thing here, the one thing that continues to be true, is that Mace pulls him back down from the sky. Puts him back into his body, puts the world back into perspective, makes things feel real agan.

This time, he does it with a packet of instant coffee. It's pressed into his hand, and as soon as he recognizes it for what it is all that humor comes crashing down and chokes him. Fills up his chest with things both happy and sad. He clutches that fucking thing like a lifeline, because of what it means.

Socks, he ignores along with the hammer and the movement in favor of surging forward to just fucking kiss him.

Fuck, man. He'd be lost if you weren't here. He just feels it, so he has to show it. ]

[ Then again, maybe Mace would’ve understood if he’d seen the whole thing — would have intuited the note of hysteria even through the silence, in the way Ian’s shoulders moved, uncontrollable and like a man pushed past his breaking point. He’d understand because god, he’s right there with you, Ian. The entire bullshit from start to finish has been fucked.

Still, seeing the whole thing — it would've made him want to handle Ian a bit softer, a bit more careful. Probably would've had him initiating the kiss he’s being pulled into right now. But it’s Ian who’s surging forward and Mace makes a little grunt of surprise and delight that neither of them can hear as he drops the hammer again in favour of putting both arms around him.

His grip is clumsier than it was in the shower, weakened compared to when he’d carried Ian across the threshold of the bedroom that first night. But there’s an urgency to the way his lips move against Ian’s, the kiss going fierce immediately; teeth scraping lip, the faint taste of somebody’s blood in somebody else’s mouth, Mace using his tongue this way to say all the things he can’t otherwise.

I got you, and thank fuck you’re okay, and most of all, a swell of emotion that he doesn’t have the words for. Maybe it’s just as well that nothing he says can be heard.

He knows it isn’t safe — they could still be being watched, they should be on their feet, hyperaware of their surroundings and searching out the nearest place to hide that wasn’t so much out in the open. But the full weight of what they’ve just gone through is starting to press down on his shoulders; the kind of shit they had to listen to, the way it felt like hell had cracked open right underneath their feet, all the skeletons in their closet tumbling out in front of the other guy.

They might as well take a second to process it now. And why not this way?

He draws back just enough to trace Ian’s lower lip with one busted knuckle. Looks him in the eye and mouths slowly: Mon-te-zu-ma.

Make ‘em a drink when they get somewhere safe, huh? ]

[ He's there, he's there, matching intensity shot for shot. Grabbing Mace by the front of his robe and reeling, teeth clicking once uncomfortably, tasting his mouth and the blood and the dirt inside of it. Fuck, fuck.

We almost fucking died man, we're always almost dying.
That thing was more terrifying than dying.

That thing - whatever it was - god, he's imagining what it must have been. What it must have looked like. The horror of it, and his imagination's ripping up amalgamations of body parts and expressions he's seen in theological books and horror movies. He's imagining gnarled off-human features, he's imagining something that sounds cartoonish to describe but that, in his head, is reminiscent of Lovecraftian horror in that it would break you just by looking at it. Drive you out of your mind for real, for good.

He's imagining that it takes you and it breaks you and it turns you into one of those eternal voices whispering in the woods.

Mace draws back. Mouths words that Ian knows the shape of because holy fuck has he been too drunk to hear or surrounded by too much music or the person talking to him was too drunk to make voice words but the legend of montezuma will fucking live on forever won't it?

If they get out of here, he's writing a thank-you letter to the ceo of the company.

Maybe Mace can make out what he breathes back:

Fuck yes.

Okay.

Recentered, the taste of Mace in his mouth, he turns his attention to making socks. Easy. Jeans immediately after, because the cold and the branches, the thorns, the rough bark, if they have to run or climb that bath robe ain't gonna cut it.

By the time he's done, the silence in his ears has been replaced with a constant tinnitus-style ringing. He doesn't know if that's better or worse. ]

[ Fuck yes, Ian says silently, and Mace feels like he can almost hear it. Gives Ian a parting nip to his upper lip in response, as a sort of IOU for the future.

As much as he wants to keep Ian's taste on his tongue a while longer, Mace knows they're far from safe. But kissing Ian had had pretty much the same effect as a shot of the aforementioned infamous-and-yet-legendary tequila, and now that he's drawn back, focus directed to the blue glow beneath his fingers, Mace finds himself missing the warmth of him.

If he didn't know better, he'd think he was starting to develop some sort of codependent thing; something that went beyond just thinking of himself in utilitarian terms when it came to Ian. Even with that fucking thing that had surrounded them — he'd had Ian holding him down, in more ways than just the literal, and ...

Man, he should ruminate on this when they're less out in the open. Continue the rest of the processing there, he thinks, and distracts himself with putting on socks, almost immediately as they appear. The jeans, those go over Mace's towel that has, against all odds, remained knotted right at his hip even underneath the robe and the horrible adventure at the tree.

It's good, having a layer between the teeth of the jeans' zipper and his dick. Safer. ]

So, so glad that you're a wizard.

[ —ah. He catches the tail end of his own words as more than a low rumble in his throat, and realizes that his hearing's coming back. More than just the thin, wheedling sound of a continuous ring that had begun to pierce the silence about a minute ago. He glances up at Ian, pushing himself onto his knees first and then slowly getting to his feet, clearing his throat before: ]

Testing, testing. One-two-thr-Ian.

[ Yup, his hearing is getting clearer all right. ]

[ It's funny, isn't it, how despite the whirlwind hurricane of things he's been feeling, somehow that unexpected nip still hits him with a soft, internal oh. Oh, like a reminder. Forgot for a second that Mace has been sweeping him the fuck off of his feet for days. Slipped his mind. Came rushing back nice and quick.

Faster than his hearing, which is spotty. Only just starting to realize his eardrums ache a little, too long at a concert, too long with headphones in, an inner ear infection feeling. All the same, he catches wizard and then thr-Ian, and--

The absolute incredulousness in his expression cannot be measured by human means. They haven't developed instruments that can go that high yet. Someone will when a Nobel prize when they do.

Did you just-
While they're fucking-
With a towel down your pants-
At a time like this-

He has to scoff, to shake his head, and his voice sounds a little off-center in his head when he speaks. ]

Maybe I should've given you binoculars instead.

[ To stare that thing in the face and spare him. Thr-Ian.

God, he l-

Nope.

He stands. Brushes off dirt and bark. Combs it out of his hair. Looks to Mace for direction, for guidance, because- where the fuck is safety now, even? What direction should they walk? He's so incredibly disoriented by the experience odds are he'd lead them straight back to that cabin. ]

[ Hard to tell what it is that gets the grin out of him, wide and sudden enough that it splits his dry lower lip: the look on Ian’s face, incredulous, absolutely beyond belief that Mace is capable of humour this bad at a time like this; or what he says next, clearly ready to disown Mace on the spot for said horrible humour.

Mace closes the distance between them, gently tugging the bathrobe drawstring free before letting the robe fall to the ground, watching Ian’s face contemplatively while he sucks the blood off his lip. Moves his jaw around a bit, a few painful pops going off in his ear as his hearing clears further.

Yep, the look on Ian's face wins. Or just his face, anyway.

It is, after all, a very good face.

Also a somewhat disoriented face, turning to him with a lost confusion that has Mace’s protective instincts flaring all over again. Yeah, he’s got you Ian. Literally, in fact, and by the belt area of those jeans as he uses it to pull Ian closer, his quiet drawl echoing oddly in his own ears, ]

Maybe I just like saying your name.

[ As he threads the bathrobe belt through two loops at Ian’s hip, before sliding the other end through his own and double-knotting it tight there. Leaves enough room that they can walk freely at a distance of about an arms-length, but the intent is clear, and he wants Ian to have the immediate reassurance of it with every step they take.

I’m with you. ]

So, I tried to keep track of how far I was — we’re about two miles away from the cabin.

[ At least, where he’d last seen the cabin. Absent-minded, he brushes a little more detritus out of Ian’s hair with his clean hand and looks around them to make sure they’re still alone. ]

Let’s keep going straight ahead for another couple miles, see how we feel at that point.

[ Could be that they find somewhere to hole up at that point. Or, it might be smarter to regroup back at the cabin, and four miles won’t be too much of a distance to cover in case they feel like turning around somewhere up ahead. ]

[ Considering everything they just went through, he shouldn't have enough room or emotional capacity to feel attracted to anything Mace does right now. And yet, the way his bottom lip pulls in, the way he steps into Ian's space, reeling him in by his waistband, I just like saying your name...

It's gotta be the fucking adrenaline. It's gotta be that- feeling that you see on movies and television, when two people just survive a horrific trauma and they immediately start fucking. That we just survived relief, the way they're amped up on it all.

He gets it now.

He really does.

Because of that, it takes him a little longer to get the reasoning behind the cloth belt and his loops, right up until Mace starts threading them through his. A tether. Can't rip one of them away by the fucking ankle if they're tied together, can they?

There's an immediate rush of profound relief, of absolute appreciation.

Let's keep going-- he may not know where, but even so, he can't hold back: ]

You're a fucking genius.

[ With a hand loosely wrapping around their tether. He doesn't even bother with the full arm's length distance. When they set out, it's close enough that their shoulders occasionally brush.

They begin trekking across the forest floor. It isn't overrun with shrubbery, no dense underbrush, mostly just tree roots and the occasional patch of weeds, thorns, fallen logs that have accumulated a small ecosystem around them. Enormous rocks embedded into the earth with only their tips sticking out like icebergs. It reminds him of the mountains around Weaverville, the woods he used to run through sometimes back home. Familiar in that way that almost doesn't make sense, just the geography, the topography, the plant life. ]

You sure you don't want shoes?

[ He positions after a while, flicking his eyes down to Mace's feet. ]

Probably have to make a fit-cut at the sides and the toes, but I could make it work. Save you from a bad day with a thorn vine. Too cold for snakes, but rocks, or... I don't know... fucking foot ghosts.

[ Who the fuck knows, with a place like this. ]

[ On a roll with his terrible humour, Mace almost replies with, I’m fucking a genius, but — he’s only just gotten that appreciative, relieved look on Ian’s face, intermingling with something softer that makes him want to shorten their tether until they’re as close as they can get.

Doesn’t want that expression rumpled with the incredulity from before no matter how funny it had been, and so his only reply is a playful tug at the belt now connecting the two of them.

Its presence is a reassurance for him, too, after the fucking scare they'd just had; Ian’s got a loose grip on it as they walk, and Mace is glad of the lack of distance between them. If it were solely up to him, they’d be even closer, with his palm steady and firm at the small of Ian’s back.

But that’s not really the rational part of him talking. It’s the part that wants his hand on some part of Ian’s body as often as he can have it now — out of the desire to keep him safe, yes, but if he’s being honest, mainly the desire to keep him close.

Maybe the two are starting to become one and the same.

Yeah, not a romantic goddamn walk in the woods, Mace. Focus.

He keeps his urges limited to a casual brush of his shoulder every now and then as they pick their way through the forest, and it’s a fairly easy terrain to navigate even without shoes. The socks, though, they make a pretty big difference to his barefooted attempt earlier — he can feel the warmth coming back into his toes that he hadn’t even noticed was gone, and he’s about to say something along those lines when Ian beats him to the punch on footwear commentary.

Fucking foot ghosts. The fog around them seems to swirl almost disapprovingly with how hard Mace snorts at that. ]

Sounds kinky. [ You can’t keep a good man down. ] The fit-cuts might just be asking for trouble, in that case. I'd be tempting them with my big ...

[ He trails off, eyes straining in the gloom and one hand going out to pause Ian mid-step. The mist up ahead seems to be getting darker in one particular spot, off to the side of the trees. Denser, almost, except ... ]

Toes.

[ No, it's not getting denser, it's getting thinner. The fog shifts a little more and now Mace can see the sheer wall of rock looming into view on their left, covered in the same ragged moss that's been coating the stones and logs on the ground. He looks up but the height of the wall — the cliff? — disappears into the grey haze surrounding them, climbing up steadily with the height of the trees.

At the base of it, about fifteen yards away — ]

I think that's a cave.

[ The adrenaline begins to fade out. The fear. Faster than before, faster than the previous times. Maybe that's a sign he's getting used to it, or maybe it's a sign he's burning out. That he doesn't have the emotional energy, the capacity to feel anything that terrible for that long anymore.

Or maybe it's just Mace. Maybe it's just everything about him. The brush at his shoulder, the playful tug at his hip, his voice and his terrible jokes and his fucking sweetness.

He swears he thinks the pause is for comedic effect, some kind of dick joke.

Nope.

Not exactly.

Fog swirls around it, it's definitely better than being out in the open, but... ]

Oh yeah, I think I saw a picture of this in ominous bullshit magazine.

[ Not that his instincts are flaring up or anything, he doesn't have any gut-wrenching indication that it's inherently bad, it's just the freaking aesthetic.

He blows out a resigned breath. ]

Might as fucking well. Go meet some fucking demon bears or cave spiders or fucking Medusa or something.

[ He's so sick of this shit. ]

[ Honestly, Mace agrees. If Ominous Bullshit were an actual mag, this picture would probably be their June cover.

The fog continues to dissipate around the area as they draw closer, and the mouth of the thing looks something straight out of a horror movie, admittedly much like everything else. If they’d just started out — if what had happened right after they’d left the cabin, hadn’t, Mace might’ve thought about avoiding it.

But it’s getting dark, and faster than he’d figured it would. For them to keep on going, in the woods, left vulnerable to whatever the fuck had surrounded them last time — they might have a better chance here.

Demon bears and cave spiders. He shoots Ian a look that’s half-amused, and half-pensive. Ian might be able to clock it as a little sad, but Mace quickly directs his gaze back to the cave.

This is the downside of attaching them together at the hip. He can’t tell Ian to wait here, can’t keep him out of harm’s way entirely and make sure the inside of the thing is safe — although, last time he’d tried to be the vanguard, it had ended up with them in worse hot water than ever.

His busted hand, he cleans it off on the side of his jeans one last time before reaching down to hold Ian’s. Redundant, maybe, considering the tether. But he wants the touch. And he wants to make sure that they stay together, that some phantom fuck doesn’t drop down from the cavern roof and snip their chain, and drag Ian away again.

If that happens again, it'll have to be over his dead fucking body. ]

Perseus was kind of a prick.

[ Stay behind me, he doesn’t say out loud, but makes it clear enough with his body language as they move forward again, hammer held at the ready and his attention now fully focused on their surroundings.

The inside of the thing is, surprisingly, demon (and bug) free. Nothing leaps out at them from behind a boulder, the earthen floor is devoid of any snakes or trap-doors. It bottoms out about ten feet inside, and against the far wall is something that could be an indication of good or bad: a bundle of furs, a lumpy rucksack, and a goddamn old-timey kerosene lamp. It's too dark to see if there's anything written on the walls, they'll need to shine a light on that first, but.

They're clearly not the first inhabitants of the place.

There’s a heavy damp in the air that Mace isn’t particularly happy to notice, though. The source of it seems to be the walls itself, the stone darkened in places, although thankfully no tell-tale cracks in the wall; maybe above, along the hilltop or clifftop or whatever the fuck it was, there’s some body of water. Or behind it, a thin, underground stream running through stone.

Back outside, Mace turns to Ian with an expression that all but says what do you think? ]

I feel like we could do worse.

Edited (somehow ate 2 sentences) 2020-06-12 05:29 (UTC)

[ Their palms slide together, and... a week ago or two days ago or maybe even yesterday that might've made him nervous. Uncomfortable with the familiarity, what it means, what it symbolizes.

And then he pinned Mace down with a hand over his eyes while a fucking demon tried to tear their souls out or something. It just... gets... more. It gets more, to the extent that finding fear in something like this feels fucking stupid.

So he grips back tight, and he lets himself be guided a little bit behind Mace while they enter.

He's played in caves before. Granted, most of the ones they used to go to had spray paint symbols all over the walls and old beer cans distributed everywhere - not a lot to do in Weaverville, and if you're underage caves were an awesome place to get hammered or stoned without getting caught.

Still, it means that the low ceilings in places and the dark corners don't bother him so much, nor the concept of a spider dropping down from the ceiling. You seen one cave, you seen 'em all.

Not really, but kind of.

What does he think? ]

I feel like we're picking between the ghost of an old-timey fucking prospector or the forest demon.

[ He says flatly, nodding his head toward the furs and the kerosene lamp. ]

But if my time smoking weed and watching Scooby-Doo taught me anything, it's that if we rip that guy's face off we'll find the landlord trying to get the deed to this property. Then you can call me Karen and I'll ask to speak to his fucking manager, game over, we just won Haunted Ghost Cabin Adventure. I need a fucking drink.

[ So... yes. ]

[ The thing is, Mace is a very literal person at heart. At twelve years old, his answer to the phrase and Bob's your uncle was a stoic silence followed by the declaration that he had only one uncle, and his name was Jeremiah.

As such, weed is the least confusing part of that sentence; the rest of it gets Mace's eyebrows rising and they don't stop until fucking manager, at which point they're practically at his hairline. He thinks he gets that last reference, but. ]

See, now I just feel like I need a translator. All I got from that, was that you like to smoke. And be called Karen?

[ A little teasing, a little serious, leading them back inside the cave with one last glance over his shoulder. The outside is still deserted and the inside of the cave is clearly empty, and between the ghost of a prospector and a forest demon, he thinks they're better off taking their chances with the ghost, but ...

God, he hopes this isn't the worst call to make. That he's not leading them into something worse, if that was even possible after what'd happened in the forest. If anything, at least they have a quick exit behind them, but the reminder of it being just the one is unsettling.

His grip on Ian's hand goes briefly tighter, the fingers interlocking, before he slides his fingers up to Ian's wrist, and then up his arm, coming to rest at his shoulder. ]

Ian.

[ Mace's voice goes all the way serious for a moment, watching the low grey light play across Ian's features, like he's about to say something important. And then he closes his mouth and drops his gaze. Shakes his head before glancing back up again and giving Ian an affectionate chuck under the chin.

There's no point saying he wanted to say. He knows what the answer would be. ]

I could use a drink too. Happy to take it straight from the source. [ He means your fingers, Ian. ]

What, you never saw Scooby-Doo?

[ Distracted, incredulous, picking his way carefully over rocky, uneven floor. Doesn't go any further than that, doesn't chase the thread, because Mace is shifting their hold to grip and to touch and...

What was that? What was that moment just now?

He lingers in it even after Mace shakes it off, searching his face and the air around him for context clues. Should he hazard a guess? Should he chase the notion, follow up with...

God, should he? Or should he just let it go because they are (he is) emotionally exhausted? Is he fixating?

If it mattered, if it really mattered, Mace would've just said it instead of changing the subject. He doesn't trust much anymore, but he trusts the guy holding his hand.

He breathes out a soft laugh, tired, lacking substance. ]

You joke, man, but I tried it. It winds up tasting like... fucking... particles, or like... you get one layer of tequila separate from the other layer which comes after and they're supposed to go together so it's god fucking awful.

[ And yeah, maybe Mace was joking, but... he's. Something, he's somewhere in his mind, just. Letting words fall out without much care, taking things half-seriously half-jokingly, some bizarre combination of annoyed and calm and absurd all at once.

But yeah, let him actually get started on that.

He extracts his hand gently from Mace's so he can lower himself down onto dirty rock, palm flat until ass hits the earth, then knees up a little, legs stretched out. Blue glow radiates. His priorities are exactly in line, he thinks.s

Tequila first.
Then shoes.
Matches.
Knife.
Blankets until he gets too drunk to make more blankets because fuck sleeping in those furs that'll probably come to life as poltergeist bear skins and try to affix themselves to their skin and parade them around like fucking marionettes or adhere to them and make them go all werewolf or what the fuck ever.

Speaking of which, a glance up at Mace-- ]

Hey man, do me a favor and like... don't fucking touch anything over there? I know it's probably tempting, but... honestly fuck all that. Also-- can you make sure there's no... creepy fucking Latin on the ceiling or like some weird symbol or like ectoplasmic slime or fucking bleeding rock? I don't fucking know. Something's gonna happen. I just wanna be drunk first.

Think my granddad did.

[ But it's not much more than a mumble as Ian gently disentangles himself from their grip and takes a seat, that blue glow materializing and momentarily stealing Mace's attention. Especially now that they're back to a context where imminent death is (hopefully) not at the top of the list of Mace's personal Red Notice.

Although, Mace does do a quick look-see to make sure Ian's not sitting on anything dangerous or, more like as not in this place, messy. He'd had a mind to place one of those furs on the floor first, maybe; a desire at the back of his mind to have Ian sit down on something warm and soft, something purely subconscious that he's not even aware of.

But then Ian's glancing up at him, and there's still that drained note in his voice that had been there a moment ago. Mace meets his gaze with steadiness, and also a growing concern now that he recognizes that tiredness for what it is.

It's not physical. Or at least, not physical exhaustion alone. A mental toll was obviously a given, considering what they'd gone through over the last week, but the sound of it in Ian's voice, slowly becoming more plain — ]

Scout's honour, I won't touch a fuckin' thing.

[ Gently, with a slightly guilty glance toward the pile of things neatly tucked away at the far end of the cave. Ian's right; it was tempting to go over and fuck around with it, and Mace's natural curiosity had been piqued by the lumps in the rucksack the moment he'd seen it.

But whatever's in there isn't worth more of Ian's peace of mind. Hell, not even what he'd wanted to say earlier had been worth that, and it'd been a lot more important to Mace than some old, forgotten stash. ]

Though I feel like I should warn you, I wasn't ever a scout. [ Musing, as he lights a match to go over and investigate the walls and ceilings dutifully, the belt just about enough to stretch along that length. The ceiling is clear of all creepy possible Latin, and ectoplasmic blood, which he's gonna take as a win. The walls, though.

God damn it. So much for not disturbing Ian's peace of mind. Mace stands there while Ian finishes making the next item on his list, staring at them until the match in his hand goes out and he burns himself with a hiss. Doesn't light another one right away, though; just comes back and folds himself right next to Ian with a measured exhale.

A pause, and then slowly: ]

Y'know, I've never actually gotten drunk. Not properly, anyway.

Granddad?

[ He echoes softly, a murmur more to himself than to Mace. He's really gonna have to sit down with Mace sometime and hash out just when exactly he's from, because... that ship, that mission, that's way beyond anything happening on Earth that he knows about now. Beyond anything that could be happening in the next decade or two or three...

Maybe that should be a bigger deal, a bigger concern, but considering all the more pressing shit happening he doesn't feel so bad they haven't had the time.

Four days? Is it four or five? Six? Less than a week, they've known each other less than a week and he's so far beyond any relationship he's had in the last ten years.

He doesn't notice the walls. He doesn't notice the hiss. He's completely wrapped up in creation, and it's taking longer than normal. The bottle of tequila comes out fine. The shoes... they take a while. Longer than they ought to, but he's tired and shoes are complicated. Matches, easy but the cardboard's crooked. Knife...

He's still on knife when Mace makes it back. Still on knife when he looks up, incredulous. ]

What- never? What's properly mean here, buzzed, tipsy?

[ The knife clatters to the ground instead of into his hand. Startles him so bad his entire body jerks.

It's a handle, but only half a blade - the side closest to the hilt, like the top half of it snapped off and left a flat line behind. He can't comprehend it for a second. ]

What...

[ The fuck? ]

Edited 2020-06-12 09:23 (UTC)

[ It's still on his mind, what he'd seen on the walls. No blood, or viscera, or body parts — no ectoplasm, no otherworldly and demonic hieroglyphs, or some sort of metalwork that would hint at this place being something more than just a cave. Not even any caveman scratches, for that matter.

Just a single sentence, scraped down large and thin as if somebody'd taken a dagger to the rock. Words that been enough to strike a very particular kind of doubt in Mace's mind, something foreboding that's almost worse than fear, in its own way. Fear, at least, made sense. But this?

Do you know how he killed Mary?

Even as Mace takes a seat, he's trying to think of the best way to break the news to Ian; mulls over it as he tries on the shoes, newly-made and, honestly, a pretty good fit even without any adjustments.

As such, he's not paying full attention to what Ian's working on, doesn't notice the reason why he's dropped the knife — for a moment, thinks that Ian's audible surprise and full-body jerk is because of what he'd just said about never having gotten drunk. Hey, it makes sense: only a couple of days ago, Mace had been teasing Ian with the nickname of Party Animal. To a guy used to that, Mace was probably gonna sound boring as fuck when he explained his own lifestyle.

There's a short, amused huff of breath through his nostrils as Mace clarifies: ]

I mean, you know. Drunk drunk. Put it this way, I was always good to be the designated ...

[ Driver. The word never makes it out. He sees the knife, sees the strange way it looks like it's been sliced off a few inches above the hilt, and Mace's eyes quickly snap back to Ian's face. Thankfully, there's no trace of pain in his expression, but ... ]

Hey. It's okay, huh? You're allowed to be tired.

[ Quietly, reassuringly, wanting to put a hand on his shoulder too but thinking the better of it. Enough weight there already, and it was no wonder Ian was running of juice. He'd been making things on the daily since they first woke up in this hell. ]

Edited 2020-06-12 11:27 (UTC)

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