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

[ Coagulated blood doesn't drip.

That is exactly the reason for Mace's confusion. A broken body, the spine twisted so unnaturally that the ribs had burst from the skin. Mangled arms, one still outstretched uselessly to the side, holding what looked like a bullhook. The head nothing but blood and crushed brain smeared across the stone — except it was worse than what he'd done to the zombies from the cabin, because the man had been clearly a man. Reddish hair still clinging to his scalp, or at least the pieces of it visible amid the viscera, wearing a fuckin' old-timey three-piece suit with suspenders.

It's a fresh kill. Meaning the killer can't be far from here, that he might've been the source of the opening door Mace had heard earlier.

Meaning they're in fucking danger, Ian's in danger and Mace needs to be taking him in the opposite direction as soon as possible. His tense gaze flickers from Ian's to the space behind him to make certain it's still clear, an uneasiness starting to settle inside his gut like a stone. ]

I think you've had it right all along. The, the fuckin' puzzle or whatever it is, it might not even be real. Might be a trap, like whatever got that poor sonuvabitch.

[ A ploy, like Ian's saying, and no sooner does he finish adding occam's razor than Mace nods, firm and decisive. ]

We'll take the right. But I don't wanna leave you open to — anything.

[ Definitely not the fork to the left, which means Ian can't be the vanguard anymore. But Mace is equally reluctant to have Ian lead them, because who knows what's over to the right? They're making an educated guess, but it's a guess all the same, and ... ]

I got an idea. C'mon.

[ It's not the most intuitive way to go, but fuck it. Mace had seen this in a spy flick and it makes sense; it's the only way he can provide cover while they turn a corner, lets him lead and shield at the same time.

Ian's hand holding the crowbar ends up between them as Mace maneuvers them so that he's all but pressing Ian up against the opposite wall. Chest-to-chest, Ian with his back safely, solidly against rock. Mace in front, with the torch held out away and to the side.

Their fingers are still overlapped, and he thinks he can feel Ian's pulse through them. Slow but steady, they inch past the bend and Mace keeps them that way even afterward, his eyes focused on the path up ahead to make sure it's empty, devoid of killers and corpses both.

Only when they're about to reach the next bend in the road, thankfully not a fork, does he let up. Steps back and exhales long and slow, shifting them back into their original positions. ]

[ Everything in this place feels like a trap. Everything about it. That guy in the tunnel, Ian's mind is spiraling out going back and forth between whether or not that was a plant. Something put there to drive them in the other direction.

Was it Mary who killed him? Smashed his head in, got her revenge after her death and subsequent resurrection? Was that music Mace heard meant to lull him down that same route? Christ, he doesn't know and he can't stop going back and forth.

Maybe this was the wrong decision.

His anxiety spikes a little higher every passing second until Mace... does whatever this is. It's...

Sweet. Safe. Romantic. Unnecessary, and a little absurd, and overwhelmingly good. So much is wrapped up in that gesture, it makes his heart ache a little. Squeeze tight in his chest, unfurl wings like a bird.

Instead of saying any of that, Ian murmurs low and wry. ]

You look kinda hot like that.

[ With the torch up in front of them like a flaming fucking sword, crowding him against the wall.

Just so you know. ]

[ This close to Ian, and like this, Mace can’t help but think of the last time they’d been like this, even with the rest of his body and his senses attuned for the first sign of something going wrong around them. Not in the shower, but right before they’d left the cabin — trapped in the bedroom from either end, Ian in the corner of the room and Mace right in front of him, holding his face in his two hands.

He’d wanted to kiss him, before they left.

He hadn’t.

And hell, but Mace never knew regret the way he did when his bare feet touched dead grass, and he looked up to see that Ian was gone.

You look kinda hot like that, and under the flickering glow of the fire, with Ian gazing at him like that — those dark, pretty eyes soft with whatever it is he’s thinking and not saying — Mace can almost forget where they are. His voice deepens, out of humour and something else. ]

Funny. I was thinking the same thing.

[ Fuck the cave. Fuck the doctors, fuck that fuckin’ demon in the woods, and — well, Mary died badly, he'll leave her out of it, but —

He crowds Ian against the wall again, and Ian might have an inch on him in height, but Mace makes up for it with a kiss that’s as rough as it is tender, his shoulders curving in. Protective and possessive, because as much as Mace's decision to round the corner in this manner had been based on strategy and security, this had been the root of it.

He draws back all too soon, pausing only to take in the way Ian looks after that. Memorizing it.

When they turn the next corner, it's still hand-in-hand. Not elbows just yet, because that juvenile whisper-urge is back along with the return of Mace's bravado, and it's telling him palm-to-palm is better, out of what is clearly a thinly-veiled desire to hold Ian's hand. But also ...

Ian put him back on track just now, when Mace had been about to go careening off the rails, got his head screwed back on straight; it’s time Mace picked up the goddamn slack and did the reassuring for a change, even if it is non-verbal. He'll use his big boy words when they're somewhere safer, where they can camp down for the night.

The tunnel ahead of them is empty, looks much the same as the one they'd just left, but with a marked difference as they keep going. One that has Mace slowing down a little when he picks up on it.

They're headed south. ]

[ Hypothermia, he'd said, is the biggest risk they're likely to face. Ian might just contest that point given the current evidence to the contrary - Mace presses against him, and while the stone at his back may be cold, his entire front is anything but. From thigh to chest he flushes hot, lips transmitting something that burns straight down his spine.

He's still lost in that moment when Mace pulls back; lips gently parted and eyes only cracking open reluctantly. Slowly.

Jesus fucking Christ.

If they fuck in the hallway and Mary stumbles upon them, will she get embarrassed and turn around? Probably not.

Gotta move. Now's not the time.

Mace's fingers threaded through his, holding that hand feels safer than holding his fucking crowbar. It doesn't matter much - it turns into a little bit of a lull, no movement behind or ahead of them. No sliding doors, nor tinkling of music. Just constant cave walls bearing down on them, gently winding them around...

Mace slows. Ian perks up. It's impossible not to be attuned to every shift, not in the quiet, not in the solitude, not when you've reprogrammed yourself to be aware of another person so intensely.

Quietly, mildly: ]

Talk to me, Goose.

[ Wait, he's probably way too young for Top Gun isn't he? Maybe not, right, ROTC and the air force and pilots and all that - does it stay a classic? Not the point. Why the slowdown? ]

[ Barely half an hour ago, this development would’ve been cause for Mace to start getting uncharacteristically on edge and nervy. The way the tunnel starts to slope downward, the ceiling feeling as though it’s also starting to get lower the deeper in they go — and it does nothing, now. Not with Ian’s taste still on his lips, and his fingers steady and warm in Mace’s hand.

The fuckin’ picture Ian had made just now, up against the wall like something out of a centerfold, still in Mace's mind in full colour.

A sharp, amused exhale when Ian speaks up quietly and he’s glancing over his shoulder questioningly. ]

Goose? Is that a …

[ Pet name — but before he can say it, something nudges him in the back of his mind: an old, old memory of sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the couch his father was on. Watching something on a huge screen, his small neck craned back and his mouth dropped open in permanent wonder. The piercing, thrilling whistle of a fighter jet revving up, a man in dark glasses, a motorcycle gleaming under the sun.

The wide, endless, open sky. ]

Movie reference. Of course it is. [ He finishes wryly, with a dumb little twinge at the realization, followed by feeling absolutely ridiculous for it. What the hell? Had he … wanted it to be a pet name? Jesus, what's Ian doing to him, and why doesn’t he even mind?

Come on, Mace. Head back in the game. He halts them gently, raising the torch up just a little to make sure the way’s still clear, before turning around. ]

Floor’s starting to slope. The moisture in the walls, that’s still mostly to our right, but check this out.

[ He lifts the torch up a ways, indicating how the damp has started to slowly shift in the direction of directly above them. When he meets Ian’s gaze again it’s with a quiet spark of something that might be hope, for the first time all night. ]

You said something about running water and an outlet, right?

[ Looks like they’re headed somewhere, at least. Making some kind of progress, unharmed and unhindered. Although, the spark he's feeling — Mace is fully aware that it has more to do with the guy he's holding onto like they're going to prom instead of headed down a murder-cave's tunnel system. The guy who’s done more to light his way than the goddamn fiery torch in his other hand. ]

[ If- if Ian ever slips up and adopts a pet name for Mace, it won't be goddamn Goose or any other farm animal. The only pet names he deigns to use are the kind you can say in bed at the height of something. Nobody's tripping into an orgasm when they hear the word Goose.

His eyes track the firelight, the glistening rock, dark patches that have worn a little more smooth than their surroundings over the course of a thousand years or more. It passes over their heads, it's sloping down, and he can see a little bit of optimism in Mace's expression.

His chin tips into a little nod. ]

Yeah - but for what it's worth, it's been like a decade since I studied geology. If I'm remembering right, the general rule is if the water's clear, you follow it downstream. It wears and erodes rock until it makes it out. If it's murky, you go upstream instead to find the inlet.

[ His lips press tight into a little concession, one shoulder shrugging up and high - taking Mace's hand with it momentarily. ]

Doesn't guarantee the outlet'll be big enough, and I don't think they took into account supernaturally haunted possessed asshole demon caves, so.

[ Could go either way. Not to be a downer, just... probably best to lay it all out there on the table honestly.

He's trying not to worry about that part - the getting out part. Not yet. He can make a fucking hammer, he can make a chisel, he can make things that explode if they need to widen something. They'll cross that bridge when they come to it.

It's the pumpkin-smashed head and the jawless assailant that has his anxiety's focus right now. ]

[ True. Although, if it's in Ian's voice, there's no telling what'll trip Mace into an orgasm at this point.

He listens intently to everything Ian's saying, the careful nod, the caution in his voice, in the way he shrugs. The message is clear and Mace honestly appreciates it, that Ian's giving him the pure facts insofar as he knows them. It's the opposite of a downer; if anything, it gives Mace more of a confidence boost, since now they (i.e. Ian) will know what they're looking at.

Whenever they come to it, of course. ]

Hey, I didn't study geology at all. Far as I'm concerned, you're the expert.

[ They start up again down the slowly winding path, and by now there's been a sizeable amount of time since they'd passed that poor son of a bitch, mashed into the floor like an insect. But although Mace's bravado has made a mostly-triumphant come-back, he hasn't relaxed at all. Still focused, just more at peace thanks to Ian, more motivated and less weighed down.

There was something about seeing death in such a way that brought the point home, and Mace knows it must still be on Ian's mind too. Mary’s corpse in the cave, that had been long-gone, grey and mottled. Didn’t seem real. The doctors back at the cabin, they’d clearly been something worse, mutated to a point where Mace’s brain didn’t even recognize them as human.

But the person who’d been crushed in the other tunnel, the blood still thin and red as it dripped from his shattered skull —

Enough to remind a man of his mortality. More than enough to remind him of the mortality of the ones he ...

Mace's hand tightens briefly, reflexively, on Ian's and he halts them again. There's another fork up ahead, except it's vertical this time. The ceiling's lowered enough so that it's just above their heads, and by the light of the torch, Mace can see where the tunnel breaks off steeply, one part of it descending and the other winding up, almost like a staircase.

Thank god, Ian had already made rope. Mace wets his lips and steps close enough to the edge, so that he can reach out with the mirror, and ... ]

Asshole demon cave with a basement. [ Not quite; more like an enclave, from what he can see. Like a stone clearing. He turns around, lower lip pulled between his teeth as he thinks of asking Ian if he'll let Mace check the area out on his own. Fuck, he doesn't want to put Ian in any more danger.

But he already knows the answer to that. ]

Shall we?

[ You're the expert earns a skeptical, uncertain little huff. The tone of it says that's not reassuring, because he barely knows what in the hell he's even talking about. Just some bullshit stored in the back of his brain from a prerequisite science credit with a professor who happened to be a spelunking enthusiast. Not only was it a decade ago, it was in the period of his life where he was known to show up to morning classes still tripping over something he took the night before.

His confidence in himself is low, and Mace's should be even lower.

But here they are. Working with what knowledge they have.

He nods tentatively, hand gripping more tightly on his crowbar, and they move in tandem down the grade.

It's not... bad, actually. Smaller than the initial cave they'd wound up in originally, curving a little into the space beneath the ascending slope beside it. No rucksack, no lantern, and no do you know how greg killed martin written in blood on any of the walls that Ian can see right off.

Clearly a dead end, though Ian pauses once they've scoped it to shoot a look at Mace. Brow wrinkled up, almost deliberately pointed - you haven't slept. He needs three or four hours to make flashlights. His sixty minute nap isn't going to last him forever, either.

His look reads what do you think, man?

Because apparently he's assuming they're on communicate wordlessly terms already. ]

[ They descend the grade slow and wary, but it looks like against all goddamn odds, they've finally caught a break.

It's empty, completely bare of anything that could pose a threat. Small enough that they can see everything right off the bat, and Mace changes his position accordingly, falls into step behind Ian the moment he's assessed the room. No danger up front; he needs to cover their back, and he stays close to the opening as Ian finishes checking the rest of the space out for them.

And Ian's assumption is absolutely correct. Mace doesn't even need to hear them to know what Ian's thoughts are when he looks back at Mace. The pointed little look, the implication barely hidden behind it — this is a dead end, it looks relatively safe, and they can at least attempt to let down their guards somewhat. Get some proper rest.

Also a lot more privacy, here. No wide mouth leading out into the wilderness with demons in it; no long, open hall winding out into interminable darkness. And after a thorough sweep of the unblemished walls, no hidden fucking trap doors either.

Mace raises his eyebrows and gives a conceding nod, as if to say, could be worse. Of course, being Mace, he follows up with an inexplicable wink.

He hadn't missed that uncertain, dubious little huff earlier, and even in the midst of all this, there's a small, curious part of his brain that's working away at how to respond to that. Later, though. First: ]

Could use some of those furs now, huh?

[ As he briefly, reluctantly lets go of Ian's hand to set the flannel-shirt-bag down in one corner. Instead of grabbing that hand again, he steps close and brushes the hair out of Ian's forehead, a poorly-hidden excuse to cup his face right afterward, looking him over intently in a way he hadn't been free to earlier, not even when they'd been chest-to-chest around that corner.

The torch is starting to burn low; by its dim yellow glow, Mace can see that the brief nap had done Ian a little good, but not nearly enough. Gently: ]

I'm good to stay up longer, if you wanna get some sleep first. Or we can focus on blocking that entrance. [ A pause, his thumb brushing Ian's lower lip in a touch that might feel absent, but is entirely deliberate. ]

Might even be able to rest together, I dunno.

[ Ian's had that blanket tied around his waist since he half-made it; he'd been going for something the size of maybe a double, but he got interrupted around twin. It's better than nothing, they'll both fit on top of it even if there isn't much room to spare. He goes about pulling the knot out, and he shakes it open onto a spot at the farthest wall. Officially decided, apparently.

Fuck those furs, by the way. Fuck anything that looks like them right now. He'll pass. ]

You need sleep.

[ He insists, though his voice is quiet - subdued not by fear for once but rather by the touch of palm to his cheek, by the stroke of a thumb across his lower lip. It does something to him, trills like bells across his skin. Radiates out farther than it ought, spreading like a hot shower cascading over his ribs.

Not for the first time, he's got to acknowledge that this man is too fucking good for him - not in terms of status, in literal goodness.

It might be visible in his expression or his body language the moment he says rest together - god he wants that. He really does, for them both to be able to lay down together. Share body heat, fucking sleep for a while. ]

Let's block it.

[ It isn't huge, just six or so feet high and three or four feet wide. There isn't much by way of movable rock to pile up before it, anything huge will weigh a fucking ton and gravity will seek to knock down progress at any opportunity.

He cards a hand through his hair, pushing it back, contemplating the problem. ]

Maybe I could do... a thin metal sheet and two wooden struts? It's not gonna be foolproof exactly, but it'll take a good amount of force to get through. Enough time for us to wake up, anyway, probably. Unless you can think of a better idea?

[ Again, Mace finds himself able to intuit Ian’s answer through his expression, through the tiny differences in how he holds himself — the way his shoulders loosen by a fraction, the way his brow eases just so as Mace finishes. The imperceptible twitch of a soft lower lip under the pad of Mace’s thumb, right before Ian speaks again, his voice low with something other than weariness.

An echo of the same longing Mace is feeling, maybe, because it’s clear that he wants that too, to rest together. The exhaustion they’re feeling now is the same bone-deep thing that’d assaulted them that second night, after the shower. Something that sleep alone couldn’t fix, not unless it was with the other guy. Mace does need sleep, but he needs Ian more.

Give it another few days, they might be able to read each other’s minds.

Although there's something Mace knows he’s missing; the emotion flickering too quickly to catch before it disappears and Ian’s running a hand through his hair as he thinks. Doesn’t take him even a minute to come up with something that’s actually their best damn bet. ]

I was gonna suggest Legos. But I like your idea better.

[ Gravely, before swooping in to steal a quick kiss, what he'd been angling for the moment he'd cupped Ian's face with that innuendo about the furs. ] Could probably still use some, though. Scatter ‘em right outside, show these fuckers the meaning of true pain.

[ All jokes aside, he really fucking hopes they can stay undisturbed. Just a few hours to put down this invisible load of perpetual vigilance — just enough so that they can stop feeling like prey and feel like people, again.

There’s a small dent in the wall where Ian had spread out his blanket earlier, and Mace wedges the torch there at an angle, before taking a seat there as Ian gets to work next to him, ready to lend a hand wherever he's needed.

Though, he thinks Ian's got this part pretty much covered. Mace is happy with his role of playing the grunt to Ian's brains. ]

So where’d you teach at, Professor? California or somewhere else?

[ Said as he unbundles the torches and the ropes out of the flannel shirt, laying out across the blankets so he can search it for any splinters. It's gonna be draped over Ian, after all. ]

[ He's midway through a laugh when Mace swoops in for his stolen kiss, lips parted and curling up into a grin. Mace catches teeth a little at first until Ian can force the muscles of his mouth back down into proper form and kiss back.

It's short, it's simple, chaste, and despite that something unfurls low and wanting in his gut. This world - because it does feel like an entirely different world than his reality - has a tendency to amplify everything in him. Everything he feels gets cranked up ten notches, including the rippling effects of a kiss. The opposite end of the spectrum from his typically overwhelming fear.

It's good. Sweet, hot.

Enough that his eyes are a little dark when he peels them away to focus on creation - he angles his palm out instead of up maybe for the first time since they've been here, concentrated effort pulling minerals through the air - maybe from the stone walls around them, maybe from nowhere. Whatever the case, they begin to knit together before him almost like a shield.

Metal isn't hard, he works in metal. It's just the size of it. It's gonna take time - twenty minutes, maybe. ]

UC Berkeley.

[ His answer has less pride than it might've before all this; hard to feel accomplished in a fucking death cave. It used to matter, used to be significant to him because he came from nothing. His mother would be proud, if she lived long enough to know. ]

Adjunct, not tenured. But. I liked it.

[ A lot. He'll miss it. ]

[ Don’t think for a minute that Mace doesn’t pick up on Ian’s tone, the way he phrases himself. His hands are languid as they stroke and prod at the shirt for splinters, his body language more relaxed than it has been since the Sun went down, but that just means his mind is all the more alert. It’s a refreshing change from having to stay fixated on their surroundings; now, he can focus on Ian’s face all he wants.

At the expression there, and the vague vestiges of pride in his voice. It reminds him of earlier. That small, skeptical huff of breath when Mace had called him an expert. ]

No fuckin’ way. Berkeley?

[ Look, Mace is plenty impressed with that. Same as he had been that first afternoon when Ian introduced him to what he could do, and frankly, he’s not even playing it up. Adjunct or on the tenure-track, that shit’s Ivy League; he has an idea of what it takes to climb up to that level, and it’s not pretty. ]

Well, that explains a lot. I mean, I knew you were smart, but … [ Leaning forward, his elbows braced on his cross-legged knees, watching the blue glow gently pull molecules into existence out of the air, pooling thin and silver in Ian’s hand. Metal, growing from a palmful, to a small plate, to more. ]

You’re more than that. Something special.

[ Technically, he already knew that one too, but. Can’t hurt to let Ian know explicitly, his gaze sliding back to Ian’s face with something soft and warm in its depths.

Also something a little sad, at the way Ian says I liked it. Past tense, like he’s not gonna get to like it again. Like he’s not making it out of here, like he already knows that for a fact, and … it makes Mace want to make promises he doesn’t have the ability to guarantee.

He runs the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip, feeling the phantom edge of Ian's teeth from that kiss just now, and then adds, ]

Gonna show me your office one day?

[ With a rueful little smile, because he knows that what he's implying might sound like a pipe-dream. Both of them getting out of here, both of them even making it back somewhere. ]

[ A wry, subtly self-satisfied smile plays on his lips at Mace's reaction. He tries to check himself with humility, but there's no denying he's gratified by the small soft strokes to his ego. Technically speaking, Berkeley isn't Ivy League - it's just a shade off, because it's a public university rather than a private one. Some people get all up in arms about that, like they couldn't make it to Yale so they have to compensate for something. Ian will never understand it.

Something special earns a little heat, though - it's a little more than he normally hears, a little more intimate in a way, too. His chin dips a bit at the praise, hair drifting down and framing his face in messy, clumped strands.

Metal grows out a little more quickly, though whether or not it's related...

No way to say. ]

Sure.

[ He says mildly, flickering a glance over at Mace. ]

I'll introduce you to my desk.

[ In a tone that sounds innocuous at first glance, but definitely isn't.

When the metal's finished, it doesn't sit flush - of course not, the wall is made of uneven rock, there are two to five inch gaps in places. If they wind up fighting smoke demons they're fucked, but anything else surely won't fit through. Maybe one of Mary's scrawny arms, but she'll have to grope around for one of the struts he starts making. She'll have to put some real effort into dislodging it from how hard he plans on wedging it in. ]

[ Admittedly, Mace is an extremely technical guy — when it comes to the things he's focused on. Where he’s from, both figuratively and literally, Berkeley’s the same as Brown, is the same as Columbia, is the same as Dartmouth. All schools he hadn’t even tried to apply to, so that’s the extent of his fine-print reading.

But even if he’d known the difference, he still wouldn’t have changed his response; Ian ducks his head, but Mace catches the pleased little look that’d gone across his face just now, something faintly smug right before Ian’s hair tumbles down and hides it. Seems completely unintentional, completely casual, and Mace has no doubt it was in direct reaction to being praised.

It’s endearing as hell — both the little dip of his chin, and the wry self-satisfaction before it — and Mace shifts forward with the intention of brushing Ian’s hair out of his face, curious and amused, when —

I'll introduce you to my desk.

Doesn’t matter how innocuous the tone, that statement only comes across in one way. And Mace is entirely on-board. Pun intended. ]

Yeah? [ Drawing out the word until it’s practically two syllables, his rueful smile turning into something closer to a smirk. Keeps his hands to himself, for now. ]

I think I’d like that.

[ The metal sheet finishes, and once it’s put into place, Mace likes the way the grey hue blends into the stone around it — it’s visible to them in the low firelight, but from the outside it’d look like a dead-end in the dark. Unless something already knew there was an opening here, of course. In which case, there’d be the wood to deal with next, that Ian’s already started to make — and Mace observes him with his head slightly cocked to the side, musing: ]

Or, hey, maybe I could help you rediscover it. Find places you didn’t even know existed.

[ He holds his hands out, ready to take the first wooden strut the moment Ian’s done with it and jam it in with all the force he can muster right now, which is still more than enough for the task. No food and no sleep didn’t measure up to the heat that had sparked low and deep inside him at that kiss in the tunnel, stoked further by the chaste peck stolen from Ian's lips a few moments before. ]

That's a bold assertion.

[ He muses in good humor, passing the first strut over and starting on the second.

It's not really, though - Ian's never had sex on or around his desk, or in his office at all. It's not as though he hasn't had his fair share of co-eds make a less than subtle pass at him, that's kind of the nature of being good-looking and teaching. It's a tale as old as time. Someone sent him a link once to rate my professor and his ego had been stroked for days.

But he's never acted on it, because he actually values his job - and because of all of his other relationship hangups.

There are plenty of places in his desk left unventured by mankind.

The second strut is crafted and slotted into place, and Ian's starting to feel the strain. Constant creation, no calories, minimal sleep. He needs rest at least, he can go a while longer without food. He can fill up on water and coffee, but god, sleep.

He peels himself away toward the sad singular blanket that makes up their bed, and he sits down heavily on it. Not laying yet, blue glow kicking in to make one more thing. ]

I'm gonna make one more thing - just. A candle. Shouldn't smoke up the place, should burn for a couple hours. I just...

[ A soft click of his teeth, a little shake of his head. ]

Can't fucking imagine sleeping in the dark right now. I'm gonna think--

[ That she's hanging over his fucking head, and that he just can't see her because the torch burned out and there's nothing to give her away. Candle light will be enough if he cracks his eyes open at some point, just to reassure himself they're alone. Small enough that the gentle glow won't escape their metal door. ]

[ See, Mace hadn’t been thinking of Ian’s desk right at the tail end of his sentence, exactly. But like his hands, he keeps that to himself for now with one short, amused huff through his nose.

He’s testing the struts one last time when Ian speaks up, and Mace turns back to see the soft blue flare up again. Can't fucking imagine sleeping in the dark right now. I'm gonna think—

A candle’s something Mace had been thinking of suggesting, back at the entrance — but at the time they’d just come off of the terrifying fucking visit in the cave itself, and a candle wouldn’t have been enough. The lit bottle-torch had cast a broader glow around them, enough to see anything approach.

Over here, there’s nothing that can approach them without first breaking through the barrier they’ve set up, but. Didn’t mean your brain accepted that, did it? Didn’t mean you’d stop seeing shadows where there weren’t any, or dread their eventual arrival. Not after the shit they’ve seen, gone through, and there’s an understanding look in Mace’s eyes as he wanders back to Ian’s side. ]

Come here.

[ Quiet, after Ian finishes making the candle, taking it from his grasp before placing it near the area that’ll be their headrest, so to speak. It isn’t too difficult to lift and maneuver Ian into his arms after that; Ian is tall and broad, but he’s also feeling the strain of the proverbial burden on their shoulders, and Mace is used to conditions similar to this, sans demonic murder victims with a grudge. He’d meant it before, when he’d said he was good to keep going without sleep a little longer.

They settle into place on their makeshift bed much the same way they’d been resting before, with Ian sprawled on top of him. Except this time Mace isn’t half-sitting up — he’s laying flat on his back, a small sigh escaping him at finally going supine. The kinks in his spine start to straighten out and he doesn’t mind how hard the ground is underneath; it’s softened by the blanket, which also gives him added protection from the chill of the cavern floor.

Not that he’s feeling any chill with Ian’s warmth holding him down so sweetly, his head nestled against Mace’s chest and the weight of him as good as a quilt. He reaches for the flannel and shakes it open, covers Ian’s upper body with it and then tucks in the sides for good measure.

Soft and slow, one arm folded protectively over Ian's torso, the other hand sliding into the back of his hair, fingers rubbing at his scalp: ]

Whenever my sisters had a nightmare, they didn't like going to our folks. They'd come wake me instead, and they were tough customers, even when they were scared. If I said, I won't let anything get you, they'd ask me, but what if it's huge and it bites your head off, so I had to give them, you know. Something concrete. So I used to tell 'em ...

[ A quiet, clicking sound as he swallows. ] Any monster's gonna have to go through me first.

[ Settling down next to - or, really, mostly on top of Mace is like settling into a warm bath after a hard day. Parts of himself he didn't even realize were tense start to loosen up, and if he had any reservations about his weight bearing down too hard on Mace's chest they dissolve within three or four seconds of their shifting into place.

He's just so goddamn tired, and it just feels so fucking good.

One of his legs threads through Mace's, the other's settled on the ground taking a little bit of his weight. The stone floor beneath their blanket is unforgiving, but even that isn't enough to take away from the sheer relief that's flooding his body.

Mace is warm beneath him, the rise and fall of his chest is soothing, his steady heartbeat breeds a calm and contentment you wouldn't think possible in a place like this.

Ian's starting to memorize the way he smells. Starting to associate this feeling with it.

His arms wind around Mace's sides, forearms bracketing the length of his ribs, fingertips nearly dipping under his shoulders. A long, low exhale escapes his nose when the pads of Mace's fingers slip into his scalp. His eyes flicker closed.

Any monster's gonna have to go through me first.

The scary thing is, Ian believes him. God, it's fucking terrifying. He doesn't say that, doesn't say anything at first but rather turns his cheek a little against Mace's chest until he can press his lips into the fabric of his shirt, just over his heart. ]

You were a really good big brother.

[ Quietly, earnestly. If he hadn't been an only child, if he'd have had a brother like Mace, maybe he wouldn't be so fucked up. Maybe he wouldn't have retreated in on himself so thoroughly when his mom died, resurfaced a year later with all his old connections having moved on with their lives and forgotten about him.

He thinks Mace wouldn't have.

He thinks what's going to ultimately take him away from Ian is something carving into him in front of Ian's eyes. It's fucking hideous to even anticipate - the notion of watching him go. That he'd be dying for Ian if he had to.

It's becoming clearer and clearer that the only thing he's more afraid of than the monsters is the heartbreak that will follow it. ]

[ As he talks, his voice low and lulling, he can feel Ian’s body start to relax and loosen bit by bit. Feel the muscles beneath his hand go lax until Ian’s all but sinking into him. Giving himself to this fully, his pulse slowing and evening out with it, and satisfaction rolls through Mace like the tide.

Then fingers are moving up the sides of his ribcage, the tips sliding underneath his shoulders as Ian’s arms frame either side of his chest, and — Mace quietens, his eyes opening to stare at the stone ceiling above them, unseeing. His fingers don't falter in their gentle massage along Ian's scalp, but ...

It’s almost as though Ian’s the one holding him.

And Mace realizes he can’t remember the last time someone held him. Not like this. Different from all the other times they’d been wrapped up in each other — in the woods, his hand had been over Mace’s eyes; in the shower, Ian's arms had been around his waist. In the bed, in the cave, in the tunnel — no, not like this.

Then Ian’s head tilts to the side, and Mace feels what is undeniably a kiss, right above his heart. An ache as sweet as a bruise blooms beneath Ian’s lips, and though it's been beating steady and strong this entire time, Mace’s heart finally skips a beat.

At Ian’s soft, earnest words, the arm that’s curled over him tightens briefly, and Mace swallows again, shaking his head slightly. ]

Always tried to be. But I messed up, before I left. [ Regret enters his voice, making it go hushed. ] Promised ‘em that I was coming back, no matter what. And then I went and froze in a coolant tank.

[ The full irony of his death hits him like a brick to the face — dying in the cold, wet, and dark, just a few thousand miles from the fucking Sun — and Mace’s shoulders shake a little in a sudden, silent moment of laughter. It dies off almost immediately, and he’s left with a faint, crooked smile as he cranes his neck to gaze down at Ian as best as he can.

Don’t leave me, Ian had mumbled earlier, so dazed with sleep that Mace figures he probably doesn’t even remember saying it. ]

I can’t promise that something won’t take me. But what I can promise is this.

[ That he won't go down easy. That he'll hold onto Ian with both hands, until the very last second, and they'll have to rip Mace away if they want him. ]

I’ll fight it tooth and fuckin' nail.

[ I won’t ever leave you, he doesn’t say, but when he brushes his lips to Ian’s forehead in a lingering kiss, Mace thinks maybe Ian can hear it anyway. ]

[ If he knew, if Mace made it clear he wanted it rather than directing Ian down on top of him, he'd do it happily. Be the one to hold, for a change - big spoon. He'd be just as relaxed, just as comfortable - what matters to him is the contact, in any shape or form.

As it is, he goes where he's told and he settles gratefully. Happy to soak up the comfort, more than happy with fingertips on his scalp and an arm tightening around his waist. Fatigue settles in like snow, slow at first but accumulating into a blanket. The still flame from an undisturbed candle makes the glow feel safe rather than flickering shadows uncomfortably around the room.

His mind accepts this false sense of security with too much ease. Any excuse to let him finally drift.

A murmur, only partly joking: ]

Yeah, you fucking better.

[ What's the saying - he'll bring you back to life and kill you himself?

But it isn't a joke. God, don't let him be too willing to go out needlessly.

One of Ian's hands shifts, dips back down Mace's ribs to gently work his fingertips under the confines of his shirt. It glides back up again, skin to skin, the wide spread of his hand curling around his back. It isn't about warmth, it's just about touch - one less barrier, comforting in a strange way he can't explain. Cloth could be anything, could be the blanket, could be the flannel, could be anything to trick him. There's no replacing warm, familiar skin.

He goes quiet, still. Listening to Mace breathe, to anything else he might say, but if time goes by for long enough he'll slip under. ]

[ Not so much Mace wanting it that way, so much as it is that no one else before Ian ever really tried. It affects him the same way Ian had earlier, pulling him away from the sinkhole of doubt opening up in his mind; the same way when he’d realized, in the woods, that Ian was terrified, and yet not budging an inch from where he’d thrown himself over Mace.

Protecting him. Ian doesn’t have to. Not his job. But he’s doing it anyway, and it brings a strange ache to life inside Mace's chest.

That little threat gets an agreeable, amused hum deep in Mace’s throat, but there’s nothing more to be said. His gaze goes half-lidded at the warm, skin-to-skin touch of Ian’s fingers as they slide down his ribs and then back up again, splaying across his bare back.

He wishes he could do right now what he used to do for his sisters — turn on his side so that Ian’s got his back against the wall, have Mace between him and the door. One last barrier between Ian and the empty dark.

But he recognizes that that’s borne of irrationality rather than practicality; and anyway, that would mean letting go of the guarding hold he has on Ian, moving him from the pliable heat of Mace's body to the cold, hard floor. That would mean relinquishing the warm, comforting weight of him that’s gently pulling him under with each passing second. None of that acceptable or desirable.

Mace’s stroking fingers slow and so does his pulse; his muscles slacken, and without his permission, his eyes slide shut to the soft sound of Ian’s breathing, to the lulling thud of his heart.

When he wakes up, it's as though he's been pulled out of a well, and he stares with bleary incomprehension into the darkness above, his heart hammering in his chest like he's just run a marathon. The candle's gone out, the faint scent of smoke in the air; he can taste salt, and he realizes it's his own tears. His arms tighten reflexively where they're still wrapped around Ian, holding him like a lifeline. ]

Ian?

[ Husky, almost unintentional, his throat dry. ]

[ It isn't Mace that wakes him up so much as perfect timing. It's a shuddering inhale - gasping down air into lungs that had felt empty not but two seconds before. Like instinct, his hands go curling up tight - one into Mace's side, one desperately into the shirt beneath his fingertips. Hanging on with everything he's got, like it'll--

Like it'll keep him from being ripped out into space.

He's bleary, though. It's a more muted affair than it had been the first time, if only because he's sleep deprived. Still incredibly groggy, a little confused, lost in the oppressive dark without even the fading light of the ship to watch disappear.

But the space beneath his palm is warm, and gravity's settling him onto something comforting, and the voice beneath his ear reaches more deeply into his mind than the memory of a dream.

Slowly, one by one, his fingers unlock from around Mace. ]

Sorry.

[ Slurred out just as raspy. He's apparently under the impression that it'd gone the other way around - that his startled grip and sudden gasp woke Mace up.

He doesn't want to wake up properly. He's still tired. His nightmare had been a desperate and heartbreaking affair again, and the tight hold around him is chasing it slowly away again.

He settles, willing his heartbeat to slow.

Remembers where they are, though, and pieces of him tighten up again. Fingers, shoulders, back. ]

We okay?

[ Right now, he means. Safe? Is something attacking them, is that why they're awake? ]

[ In his arms, Ian judders awake with a sharp, gasping intake of breath, his hands going tight and desperate around Mace, fisting into his shirt and fingertips pressing hard into his skin. A reaction like that only means one thing, the same thing it’d meant back in the cabin; Mace wets his lips, a counterintuitive action since he knows it’ll only dry them faster.

Doesn’t say what’s pressing most in his mind. Doesn’t have to ask to know what the answer to that would be.

Gradually, Ian’s fingers ease up, his body following suit bit by bit, and Mace makes a quiet noise of disagreement and confusion at the groggy apology.

Realizes belatedly that Ian must think he woke them up, and opens his mouth to clarify — but by then Ian’s starting to tense up again, uncertainty intermingling with the bleariness in his voice as he asks if they’re okay, and Mace’s first instinct is to dispel that.

The hand that’d been in Ian’s hair had slid down sometime during their slumber, ended up between Ian’s shoulder-blades, and Mace rubs it up and down in slow, soothing circles over the flannel. ]

Yeah, we’re good. [ Hoarsely, and he clears his throat, tilting his head to shoot a look around them to make sure he’s not actually wrong. It’s useless; the enclave is pitch black. ]

I’ll light a match, just … one sec.

[ Normally, he’s an up-and-at ‘em kinda guy. Even on the days when his energy hits a low, he’s on his feet within minutes of waking ... but right now, all he wants is to stay like this a while longer. Hold Ian a while longer, stemming from some unknown, agitated desire inside him. Almost like if he lets go — if he moves his hands away from Ian even for a second, he won’t be able to close them around him again.

That he’ll be gone. That something will snatch him away.

He doesn’t even want to brush the back of his hand across his face, right now. ]

Wish I could fuckin’ remember.

[ If only so that Ian wouldn't have to be alone in this, the nightmares that they're both clearly having, and it's not too big of a stretch to think that it's something about this godawful place that's doing it to them. ]

[ Honestly, gone as he is right now, we're good is enough of a reassurance for him. It wouldn't have been if he were a little more there, but as it stands he hums contentedly when Mace opts not to move. There could be something hanging down from the ceiling right now, some part of him acknowledges that, but it's a case of if you can't see it, it can't see you.

Besides that, the more immediate threat to his psyche is the one he just woke up from.

His cheek presses down into Mace's chest, some vague shake of his head restricted by muscle. ]

No y'don't.

[ He murmurs, absolute certainty in an otherwise absent tone.

He wishes he didn't remember either. Wishes they could both wake up ignorant and then just go right back to sleep again. There's no point in telling him, no point in Ian making things even one iota worse for him than they need to be.

It's okay. He can deal with this one alone. Small mercies.

He turns his head to face the other direction, nose digging into Mace's chest a little bit. It can't possibly be comfortable from an objective viewpoint, but Ian seems content with it. ]

[ Having Ian nestled up to him like this, warm and soft and very much safe, is doing wonders for Mace's ability to get back to baseline. A distracted murmur that's still nevertheless firm, as Ian turns his head back and forth, inadvertently nuzzling him.

Another shift, and then his nose is pressing into Mace's chest in a way that can't be comfortable, but he doesn't seem to mind it at all; the whole business just makes Mace wish they were somewhere else, somewhere safer, or at least more like a house. Even the goddamn cabin would be better than this.

His own heartbeat is back to normal now, and the strange, fraught reluctance to let go of Ian for even a moment is starting to fade. Mace's voice goes from hoarse to a calmer, more wry rasp, ]

You're not gonna tell me, are you? [ About the nightmare. It's almost a rhetorical question, that's how certain he is of Ian's answer to it, and with an unwilling exhale, he lets go of Ian's waist to grope in the darkness for the matches he'd left by his head.

Grabs the box, and realizes he'll have to bring his other hand into the equation; with another exhale, does exactly that for a brief moment, and a flame bursts into life right above them, illuminating the immediate area as he sweeps it in a wide arc. A swift, keen glance around the enclave confirms there's nothing there, that their metal-and-wood blockage had done the trick of keeping them isolated in their sleep, and Mace lets his head fall back in relief.

It's short-lived. He's just about to suggest that they get a start on making whatever they need before they head out again, when the words freeze on his lips and his body goes suddenly tense underneath Ian, one arm quickly folding across his back.

Music. The faintest notes trickling into his ear as though from a great distance, and this time it's accompanied by something that has the small hairs on his arm stand up: a thin, grating sound of metal dragging against stone.

The match goes out. ]

Fuck. [ Bitten-out, angry at himself, feeling unease ripple through him. ] I'm hearing it again.

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