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Emmet could feel his resolve weakening. There's no hope for him. Not now, not ever.
“Emmet. It's rude to stare.”
Emmet tenses his fists and sharply jerks his head away, fixing his gaze on the tiny flames he's finally successfully encouraged to take hold. It's almost impossible to keep his perverted gaze off Ingo, who is certainly testing his limits by shedding both coat and tunic. Ingo isn't bulging with muscle by any means, but his undershirt is a close fit regardless, and doesn't do anything to dissuade Emmet's wandering eyes. Ingo has a good body, and he's just appreciating it!
Emmet slowly leans back now that his little fire is beginning to grow. He reaches for the sticks and branches Ingo had sorted out for him earlier and drops a random handful on top of the little blaze. Flames greedily lick up the fuel and it doesn't take long for it to grow to a suitable size, perfectly nurtured to life by Emmet. Triumphantly, he lowers their cooking pot to sit just above the flames.
“Yes, yes, you make a wonderful mother.” Ingo's jibe makes him stiffen and he squares his jaw, about to protest when Ingo simply continues speaking, “come give me a hand preparing the ingredients, Emmet.” Hearing his name in that rough, gravelly voice still does unfair things to him. He obeys, wincing at the pain that sears through his shoulder when he pushes off the ground.
“A hand. Coming right up!” The warden is turned away from him. Emmet can't stop himself from sticking his finger in his mouth and giving it a thorough coating of saliva. It's a bad idea. It's an awful idea. Yet he can't help himself. It's like his body is moving on its own, something urging him to…
WHAM.
Emmet's heart pounds against his ribs. His head screams with pain. His shoulders hurt. Ingo is staring at him, silver eyes alert and flickering over Emmet's prone form. Staring…staring…the intensity in those eyes quickly fades away and Emmet is roughly manhandled up off the ground. Apologies spew from Ingo's mouth as the warden brushes him off and adjusts his coat. What just happened? He rubs the back of his head and rolls his shoulders as best he can, and Ingo's attention quickly turns to fussing over his old injury.
“Are you…” Ingo lifts his hands when Emmet shrugs him off and rubs his shoulder. “I didn't…You, I'm so sorry, you startled me, and–”
“It's fine. I'm fine.” Emmet shakes his head. Hidden away there's a sense of smug satisfaction that he , of all people, managed to surprise Ingo, but now certainly isn't the time to revel in that. Ignoring the throb of his head, Emmet steps past Ingo and picks up a knife. “ Really , Ingo. I'm fine.”
Ingo's natural frown deepens for a moment, then he nods. “I sharpened the knife earlier.” Even when trying to give Emmet a full task to ease his guilt, Ingo still had to prepare everything. That didn't help. Still, Emmet was determined to do something all on his own - he didn't need Ingo! Guilt nipped at him at the thought and he very firmly pushed it away. He wasn't trying to prove anything to anyone except himself. That was all.
It's not easy to wield a knife without another hand to brace whatever you're cutting, and there's something inherently dangerous about just swinging a knife down on a round object. The first cut is crooked. Verrry crooked. And the knife has embedded itself in the soft wood beneath. Emmet pins the board with his elbow and wiggles the knife free, only to have the exact same thing happen on the next swing. Third time lucky, but the knife simply glances off the side of the radish, sending the vegetable rolling away.
“Ingo I can't. I can't!” It's a petulant whine that comes out of Emmet's mouth. Very undignified. He drives the end of the knife into the wooden bench in frustration, and slams his fist down.
It's unusual. They're identical - well, they almost are - but Ingo's hand seems to dwarf his own. Ingo's fingers are calloused and rough atop his own which are, in comparison, stringy and bony from disuse. Ingo had been doing everything for him. Emmet couldn't even cut some blasted vegetables!
“If you wanted me to hold your hand, Emmet, all you had to do was ask.” Ingo's idea of ‘courting’ was certainly…something. The warden gently squeezes his hand - it's okay .
“I'm not- No! I don't! You!” There's no good comeback to the way Ingo's body moulds so perfectly to his back. Ingo is warm. Ingo is comforting. Ingo is home.
He's not even in control of his own body, which seems to be happening an awful lot recently. Ingo moves his arm and hand like a doll, even manipulating his fingers to better angle the knife as it slices through roots and vegetables. Emmet can only hope Ingo can't feel the erratic pound of his heart through his back. Even with Emmet's clumsy, non dominant hand on the knife, Ingo guides him with all the patience in the world. When the knife slips sideways, Ingo simply eases it out and guides Emmet's hand through once more.
It's…not relaxing , but that's the best Emmet can come up with. Soothing? Ingo is doing all the work, as usual, but the thought doesn't make Emmet squirm in his skin for once. It's almost over too soon. Everything is chopped into pieces, all the nasty bits discarded to the side for Tangrowth.
Ingo's presence slithers away from him. “Could you lift the lid, please, Emmet?”
Of course he could! Emmet grabs a handful of loose cloth and does as he's asked. The steam that rises from the pot already smells good enough to eat whatever's inside - but he trusts Ingo whenever he says it's not ready yet, despite patience not being a redeeming quality of Emmet's.
Emmet settles down on the soft pile of furs by the hearth. He watches as Ingo examines a collection of candles, picks one up, then neatly slices a chunk of the top. It's lit and placed on a stand nearby, then Ingo joins him on the floor, fussing about with the collection of pelts for a moment before settling himself.
Despite its more permanent structure, the half tent, half cabin doesn't have the best walls. Wind cuts through tiny gaps in the logs and fabrics draped about. The fire is warm, but Emmet still huddles against Ingo as they watch the pot. Ingo is pressed against him just as much, if not more - one arm over his shoulder, holding him close, fur-lined coat draped over both of them. It feels familiar. Safe. Emmet feels like something is still missing, but he isn't sure what. He doesn't push it, instead resting his head on Ingo. It's more relaxing out here, in a way. Just him and Ingo. No Calaba. No pitiful glances thrown at the useless crippled foreigner who can't even speak their language. Not for another nine months, at least. Honestly? That sounds wonderful.