(no subject)
Title: Wait It Out
Author: Elissa
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Ian/Marshall
Word Count: 1100
Summary: If Ian's not going to talk, Marshall's not going to push it. He's not sure how far he's allowed yet.
Disclaimer: This is so not real. If you've gotten here by googling yourself or one of your friends, for the love of God, the back button is your friend.
Thanks to jewels667 for the quick beta. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
"What's wrong with you?" Marshall asks.
"Nothing," Ian answers, but it's defensive enough that Marshall knows he's lying.
"Yeah, OK."
If Ian's not going to talk, Marshall's not going to push it. He's not sure how far he's allowed yet. Besides, he's found that, in most situations, waiting works better--patience is a virtue and all that crap. If Marshall waits long enough, he usually gets what he wants. Only with Ian, he isn't sure enough that he'd hold his breath.
With Singer, it's enough if Marshall doesn't ask twice. Eventually, he gets annoyed that Marshall doesn't want to know, or doesn't want to know badly enough to force the subject. It usually doesn't take more than a few hours of ignoring it before Singer caves and spills his guts. If Marshall lets him talk long enough, it'll works itself out.
With Johnson, Marshall knows him well enough that he can usually figure it out without the words. Sometimes it takes a few tries, but if he guesses right, Johnson will cop to it and most of the time, it's enough that someone else knows, too.
Cash is loud about his problems. He doesn't bottle them up or ignore them or wait for someone else to notice, he just stomps around, yells, he hits things, hits people. Marshall sometimes wonders if Cash's way isn't the least self-destructive, even if it does wear hard on everyone else.
As far as Marshall can tell, Ian deals quietly like Johnson, only he's harder for Marshall to read. He hasn't had as much time to figure him out. It's frustrating, but Marshall doesn't give up easily.
"You miss your family?" he tries, a couple of days later when Ian's still got that look on his face, closed off and tight, like he's doing his best to deal.
When he smiles, it's strained. "Of course. Don't you?"
Marshall nods and kicks his feet up on the back of the bench seat in front of him, almost clocking Cash on the side of the head.
Cash shoves his feet away. "Watch where you put those, fuckwad."
From the driver's seat, Singer launches into a story about home, his sister's ballet recital and some kid losing his pants on stage, how his sister couldn't finish the dance, she was laughing so hard, how he wishes his mom had gotten it on tape.
Johnson looks back from the passenger seat, catches Marshall's eye and smiles softly. Marshall smiles back. He presses his knee against Ian's without looking over, feels him relax a little. Marshall keeps pushing until Ian pushes back.
After their set that night, Johnson catches Marshall's wrist, pulls him outside while everyone else goes to clean up a little.
Johnson lights a cigarette and Marshall leans against the brick of the building, feels the sweat on his neck cool in the breeze. When Johnson doesn't say anything, Marshall snags his cigarette, takes a drag and passes it back.
"You've got that face like you want to say something."
Johnson doesn't deny it, just flicks at the end of his cigarette and makes himself comfortable next to Marshall on the wall, steps lightly on Marshall's foot, once, twice. Marshall waits him out.
Finally, he says, "Ian's OK, you know?"
Marshall steals his cigarette again, pulls smoke into his lungs and lets it out on a measured exhale. It burns, but he doesn't cough.
"OK."
Johnson shrugs. "Just...he'll tell you or he won't, but you don't have to worry. I know that's a thing you do."
Marshall takes another drag, gives the cigarette back. "OK."
But it's easier said than done, especially when Ian won't meet Marshall's eye, when he takes the middle seat with Cash even though Cash kicks in his sleep, when he lets Singer have an extra turn at shotgun when Marshall's up to drive. Then, Marshall stops worrying about what's wrong with Ian and starts worrying that maybe it's his fault.
Two nights later, they get a hotel, Cash and Singer and Marshall in one room, Ian and Johnson in the other. Marshall's not sure how long he's been asleep when Johnson shakes him awake, presses his key into Marshall's hand and climbs into his bed, mumbles, "Ask him again." It's the most he's ever seen Johnson interfere.
When Marshall pushes into Ian's room, both beds are empty. The covers are messed on the one with Johnson's bag at the foot, the other is un-touched. The shower is running.
Marshall sits down and waits it out. He must fall asleep, because the next thing he knows, Ian's calling his name.
He pushes himself up into a sitting position and Ian is there, sitting stiff on the edge of the other bed.
"What are you doing here, Marsh?"
"What's..." Marshall starts, his voice is sticky with sleep. He clears his throat, then starts again. "What's wrong with you? Seriously."
Ian huffs out a breath, buries his face in his hands, but he looks up when Marshall asks, "Is it something I did?"
His face is unreadable, his fingers clenching and un-clenching in the bedspread at his sides.
"Whatever it is, I'm sorry," Marshall tries and this time, Ian shakes his head.
"You didn't. Shit, you didn't do anything."
Marshall furrows his brow. "Then why..."
But Ian cuts him off, reaches forward and grabs his arms, tugs him forward until he's straddling his lap. Marshall sucks in a breath, digs his fingers into Ian's shoulders.
Ian's hands settle at Marshall's waist, clenching and un-clenching just like they did on the bed spread. "You didn't do anything," he says softly and his mouth is still tight, but his eyes are wary, like maybe he expects Marshall to shove him away.
When Marshall finally gets it, Ian's hands are back on the mattress and he's looking at a point on the wall over Marshall's shoulder.
"Oh." Marshall sucks in a breath and Ian shifts, like he's trying to dis-lodge him, but Marshall stays put, moves his hands to the back of Ian's neck, one sliding up into his hair and tugging gently.
When Ian finally meets Marshall's eyes, Marshall is smiling. It takes a second before Ian smiles back.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Ian opens his mouth, but Marshall interrupts. "And don't say I didn't ask."
Ian shrugs. "I guess I didn't think you'd really want to know."
Marshall laughs and presses their lips together. When he pulls back, Ian's expression is loose, happy. "I always want to know."
Ian slips his hands up under the back of Marshall's shirt. "Yeah." He chuckles into the skin of Marshall's neck. "That's what Johnson said."
Author: Elissa
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Ian/Marshall
Word Count: 1100
Summary: If Ian's not going to talk, Marshall's not going to push it. He's not sure how far he's allowed yet.
Disclaimer: This is so not real. If you've gotten here by googling yourself or one of your friends, for the love of God, the back button is your friend.
Thanks to jewels667 for the quick beta. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
"What's wrong with you?" Marshall asks.
"Nothing," Ian answers, but it's defensive enough that Marshall knows he's lying.
"Yeah, OK."
If Ian's not going to talk, Marshall's not going to push it. He's not sure how far he's allowed yet. Besides, he's found that, in most situations, waiting works better--patience is a virtue and all that crap. If Marshall waits long enough, he usually gets what he wants. Only with Ian, he isn't sure enough that he'd hold his breath.
With Singer, it's enough if Marshall doesn't ask twice. Eventually, he gets annoyed that Marshall doesn't want to know, or doesn't want to know badly enough to force the subject. It usually doesn't take more than a few hours of ignoring it before Singer caves and spills his guts. If Marshall lets him talk long enough, it'll works itself out.
With Johnson, Marshall knows him well enough that he can usually figure it out without the words. Sometimes it takes a few tries, but if he guesses right, Johnson will cop to it and most of the time, it's enough that someone else knows, too.
Cash is loud about his problems. He doesn't bottle them up or ignore them or wait for someone else to notice, he just stomps around, yells, he hits things, hits people. Marshall sometimes wonders if Cash's way isn't the least self-destructive, even if it does wear hard on everyone else.
As far as Marshall can tell, Ian deals quietly like Johnson, only he's harder for Marshall to read. He hasn't had as much time to figure him out. It's frustrating, but Marshall doesn't give up easily.
"You miss your family?" he tries, a couple of days later when Ian's still got that look on his face, closed off and tight, like he's doing his best to deal.
When he smiles, it's strained. "Of course. Don't you?"
Marshall nods and kicks his feet up on the back of the bench seat in front of him, almost clocking Cash on the side of the head.
Cash shoves his feet away. "Watch where you put those, fuckwad."
From the driver's seat, Singer launches into a story about home, his sister's ballet recital and some kid losing his pants on stage, how his sister couldn't finish the dance, she was laughing so hard, how he wishes his mom had gotten it on tape.
Johnson looks back from the passenger seat, catches Marshall's eye and smiles softly. Marshall smiles back. He presses his knee against Ian's without looking over, feels him relax a little. Marshall keeps pushing until Ian pushes back.
After their set that night, Johnson catches Marshall's wrist, pulls him outside while everyone else goes to clean up a little.
Johnson lights a cigarette and Marshall leans against the brick of the building, feels the sweat on his neck cool in the breeze. When Johnson doesn't say anything, Marshall snags his cigarette, takes a drag and passes it back.
"You've got that face like you want to say something."
Johnson doesn't deny it, just flicks at the end of his cigarette and makes himself comfortable next to Marshall on the wall, steps lightly on Marshall's foot, once, twice. Marshall waits him out.
Finally, he says, "Ian's OK, you know?"
Marshall steals his cigarette again, pulls smoke into his lungs and lets it out on a measured exhale. It burns, but he doesn't cough.
"OK."
Johnson shrugs. "Just...he'll tell you or he won't, but you don't have to worry. I know that's a thing you do."
Marshall takes another drag, gives the cigarette back. "OK."
But it's easier said than done, especially when Ian won't meet Marshall's eye, when he takes the middle seat with Cash even though Cash kicks in his sleep, when he lets Singer have an extra turn at shotgun when Marshall's up to drive. Then, Marshall stops worrying about what's wrong with Ian and starts worrying that maybe it's his fault.
Two nights later, they get a hotel, Cash and Singer and Marshall in one room, Ian and Johnson in the other. Marshall's not sure how long he's been asleep when Johnson shakes him awake, presses his key into Marshall's hand and climbs into his bed, mumbles, "Ask him again." It's the most he's ever seen Johnson interfere.
When Marshall pushes into Ian's room, both beds are empty. The covers are messed on the one with Johnson's bag at the foot, the other is un-touched. The shower is running.
Marshall sits down and waits it out. He must fall asleep, because the next thing he knows, Ian's calling his name.
He pushes himself up into a sitting position and Ian is there, sitting stiff on the edge of the other bed.
"What are you doing here, Marsh?"
"What's..." Marshall starts, his voice is sticky with sleep. He clears his throat, then starts again. "What's wrong with you? Seriously."
Ian huffs out a breath, buries his face in his hands, but he looks up when Marshall asks, "Is it something I did?"
His face is unreadable, his fingers clenching and un-clenching in the bedspread at his sides.
"Whatever it is, I'm sorry," Marshall tries and this time, Ian shakes his head.
"You didn't. Shit, you didn't do anything."
Marshall furrows his brow. "Then why..."
But Ian cuts him off, reaches forward and grabs his arms, tugs him forward until he's straddling his lap. Marshall sucks in a breath, digs his fingers into Ian's shoulders.
Ian's hands settle at Marshall's waist, clenching and un-clenching just like they did on the bed spread. "You didn't do anything," he says softly and his mouth is still tight, but his eyes are wary, like maybe he expects Marshall to shove him away.
When Marshall finally gets it, Ian's hands are back on the mattress and he's looking at a point on the wall over Marshall's shoulder.
"Oh." Marshall sucks in a breath and Ian shifts, like he's trying to dis-lodge him, but Marshall stays put, moves his hands to the back of Ian's neck, one sliding up into his hair and tugging gently.
When Ian finally meets Marshall's eyes, Marshall is smiling. It takes a second before Ian smiles back.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Ian opens his mouth, but Marshall interrupts. "And don't say I didn't ask."
Ian shrugs. "I guess I didn't think you'd really want to know."
Marshall laughs and presses their lips together. When he pulls back, Ian's expression is loose, happy. "I always want to know."
Ian slips his hands up under the back of Marshall's shirt. "Yeah." He chuckles into the skin of Marshall's neck. "That's what Johnson said."