( mixed. ) pasa mi corazón del frío al fuego

[ashaya]

Who: Spock, Jim, Gwen, Peter, and various.
Where: Various locations (see prompts for details).
What: Gnosia-related shenanigans.
Warnings: Uh. Probably more than a few? Most likely: references to genocide, references to starvation/famine, references/overt descriptions of being targeted by racially motivated crimes, general violence, and gore. Maybe some vaguely racy commentary here and there (linked).

Comments

>> stem shenans.

[ashaya]

[ this is a catch-all. just respond with your prompts here guys for them. ]

STEM Group Chat >> Secure >> UN: keptin

[finalfrontiersman]

>> Are you guys okay?
>> Did you see that alert on the tablets?



>> Spock and I are infected.

[spidermenaces]

I was buying this sandwich
And the sandwich guy froze
Do you think we cau

You're what
Where are you
We are coming

Are you okay how are you feeling
It said projected destruction
Are you destructing or destructive

healing party take one

[arachnerina]

[Keeping Jim and Spock contained until she could figure out how to heal them did not work. It was a good attempt, something they weren't even sure would work in the long run, but at least they tried.

But now she knows what to do. At least, she thinks she knows what to do. It's just a gut feeling she has, that in the moment, she'll be able to do it.

Step one was figuring out where Spock and Jim even went. Peter and Gwen knew most of the city by heart at this point, as much as they explored it by web, so it wasn't too hard to figure out where to look. They definitely weren't at STEM club, and they weren't at their home, so the next place she thought to check panned out.

A brief stakeout at the warehouse showed it was in fact where the two were camped out. Then came the planning. She would only be able to heal one of them at a time-- an annoying problem that came with this ability, which meant she could only help one of them today. That would mean trying to catch one of them on their own, or if catching both of them, having to keep one restrained again until tomorrow. She would just have to play it by ear, depending on how things played out.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem like Spock and Jim were staying far apart (which was honestly completely unsurprising), so they had to go to plan B. Peter would distract Spock with his Iron Spider suit. Spock was stronger, so it would be easier to take on him in with the stronger suit. Peter would nab him while she would lure Jim away and try to heal him, and they would just worry about healing Spock tomorrow. Totally airtight plan, right?

They had to put it in motion quickly, they didn't have time to waste. They only had a week until "projected destruction", whatever that meant, so they needed to save their friends-- and before Jim and Spock hurt anyone else.

So here she is, dropping down silently outside of the warehouse. Peter is off on his mission, so Spock shouldn't be anywhere close by. Her spider-sense is going haywire, so she knows there must be traps galore inside, so she's hiding around the corner as she pushes the door open. She's hoping she can just lure Jim to her, but he's crafty-- and he knows a good bit about her powers. Hopefully that doesn't bite her in the ass.]

Helloooo? Jim? Spock? You guys in there? Loving what you've done with the place, by the way. Really channeling the murder vibes.

[finalfrontiersman]

[ The warehouse was perfectly suited to their needs, strategy wise, and it's no mystery why the pair of them had holed up there. It's relatively removed from common foot traffic areas - but not so far removed that no one would stumble across it, unwittingly, or that they wouldn't be able to get to and from it. Curiously, all of the traps they've set are non-lethal; perhaps there's something of them holding on, somewhere deep within.

Holding on, however, did not mean in control.

The humming in Jim's head has grown louder, in the intermittent hours since Spock's departure, setting off on an expedition for supplies. It's easier to keep the latent violent desire at bay when Spock is there, when the bond that they formed - incognizant and instinctual, as the Gnosia had taken root - is strengthened by proximity. At the moment, Spock is a hungry, desolate echo at the back of his mind. Not chasing prey, not yet, but soon enough. Soon.

Gwen's arrival had not gone unnoticed, but then, it's probably better she's not attempting to sneak up on him. He's not the same as he was, feverish on her bathroom floor - not even the same as the manic energy he'd exhibited upon their escape, Spock smashing right through the wall like it was nothing. No, Jim is...no longer himself, more animal than human.

But there was a reason humans were at the top of their respective food chain.

The warehouse is dark as Gwen enters it, a tripwire placed carefully right by the door. Blood smears the floor, it looks like - someone was dragged? Moonlight filters in from the high windows, illuminating what it can. The room has been outfitted with sheets of metal, forming - a barrier, caged in areas where the people Jim and Spock have been collecting reside. There must be at least ten huddled in the cage closest to Gwen and more beyond, secreted in other areas of the space. A hand stretches out from the bars, stone white and flecked with blood. Please, please help us...

Should Gwen take a step forward, it will become apparent the tripwire was just a ruse - perhaps solely to check that she was paying attention. It seems Jim's set up a motion detector, and the entire room washes with sudden, intense white light - floodlights, rigged to the catwalk along the ceiling. Jim stands at the top, goggles obscuring his eyes and looking much worse in the light - shirt torn, hanging off his body like a rag, blood soaking through most of the remaining fabric. Some of it was red, though whether it's Jim's or someone else's it's hard to tell - and some of it green, splashed gruesomely across his pants.

Jim has a megaphone, and the grin that pulls at what's left of his visible expression is crazed, all teeth. ] Pleasure as always, Miss Stacy.

[ The button he hits, a remote trigger in his free hand? It sends a cacophony of sound ripping through the speaker system (feedback, loud music tracks, overlapping each other), echoing on the warehouse walls. The poor people trapped in the cage shout and huddle down, trying to cover their ears. It seems Jim's the think smarter, not harder type, even when infected - and if he couldn't beat Gwen in a hand to hand fight, doing his best to overstimulate her senses seemed a sensible method of attack. ]

the hostage

[spidermenaces]

(the iron spider is durable, he's glad with his choice. even though whenever he's charging it the lights flicker, and it sucks so much power - he can never charge to the fullest extent of it. perhaps this should be in the back of his mind when he chose it, but then, if he's going to get his ass kicked by an alien again, he's going to want nanites to soften the blow. the pincers aid him to stand a little taller on the first building he can get onto, until he finds spock.

the landing is a little dramatic, considering the pincers sinking on grass, and there's a little pose that goes with it right after, like all the pincers shrug along with him, palms up and happy chipper once he finally speaks - and unfortunately for everyone, he won't stop.)

Hey, Mr. Spock! How about you come with me, have some OJ, some Nyquil, and a nice chicken soup to get the murderous virus out?!

[ashaya]

[ It is to his advantage and subsequent disadvantage that Spock holds within his psyche something of a tether — a direct line. For all that the urge to purge and rend drives and scrabbles and claws, there is the hum of the other that centers him. It is gold in the fists, gold in the pull of his orbit. Gold, Spock thinks dim and piecemeal, that flickers as a brand against the back of his eyelids as it settles. Quiets.

There is something wrong and the physical ache of a perceived abandonment mutters and seethes and gnaws. It gouges into the steps of his spine, makes of him mockery. How might he have believed he might not be left behind? How might he believed that nothing more should be taken from him? How might he—

His steps are not as measured as they were before. He hears the call of someone, someone that he knows and recognizes, but the name flees from his tongue. It mutes, beneath the persistent buzz of so much static. Like travel interrupted, the electricity of his home whipping red and wild, he cannot hear a thing above the roar.

I'll come with you, I'll come with you.

The sun is high. Spock knows he knows. Gnosia knows he knows, too. It skitters along the back of his mind, lingering over the bruise of the nascent bond gone quiet, but still alive. ]

I do not negotiate, [ Spock rumbles, voice rough with disuse. His dark eyes seem darker still as he circles him, the acquired limp he's drummed up in the interim hardly an impediment. The air is thick with the scent of copper, green smeared across the high of a cheekbone.

There's a glimmer teeth as his body naturally settles into a fighting stance, knowing if he is to get what he wants — he must take this one alive. ] Not with you.

[ And that's as much warning as he's getting. He'll wait for the first move, but the intent is burning hot and bright. ]

hostage situation (night mode).

[ashaya]

[ It isn't to say that the night is any easier than the day is.

No matter the influence, Spock's body is one geared to habit. When he does sleep (and sleep he does in fits and starts), the periods are brief and heavy. Made small in the darkest corners of his newly outfitted premises, Spock drifts not unlike a Terran feline. Curled over his own knees, cheek pressed to the crown of bone, he mumbles soft and incoherent things. He dreams, the rapid movement of his eyes beneath their lids insensible and feverish.

Where it is Peter is confined, Spock has made certain he is without the ability of easy escape. Situated within his periphery, it is an unusual option for a Gnosia to take, but then the situation itself is peculiar. Spock has never been one to be boxed by any such parameters and confines, a singular since the day he was born. His own existence is abomination to some, miracle to others.

But, what experience does that beget? When one is so closed by nature and nurture and culture, how does that begin to shape a person? ]

[ There is a house set up high upon a hill. The night flowers are sweet whilst they are in bloom, but you (Peter? Spock?) are awake. You watch the spill of stars along the cusp of the horizon, the darkness heavy and velvet without the light of a moon.

Your father's estate is spacious. Sterile, geometric. Alien in its architecture with wide, sweeping windows. You find yourself following the creaking floorboards, which you know do not creak to the ears of a Human. But, you are (not) Human. You are (not) Vulcan.

A shape moves swiftly down the stairs. Young, girlish. Rounded ears. She carries with her a rucksack. Your voice is caught in your throat, but it seems more than that. It seems as though the words are disconnected. Your mind knows the shape, but your tongue is useless. It cannot (will not) form them.

You come to the top of the stairs. Do you follow? Do you seek another path? ]

Re: hostage situation (night mode).

[spidermenaces]

(this couldn't suck more. he's sure he could break a wall, bend metal, there wouldn't be any problem with the environment - it's the vulcan that is too close to him that paints the situation as complex. there's an advantage at being here - jim and gwen will most likely come for them, and three against one seems to decrease the risk of injury for all involved. it plays better if he just stays here for a while, until the boredom and monotony plant ideas into his mind and he acts upon his crime. naive, reckless.

but as of now, he isn't in captivity. he is somewhere that feels familiar, somewhere that is partly inherently of his memory, and yet, so foreign.

he'll follow the shape, an attempt to understand and unknot the phrases in his throat.)

>> open prompts (for spock)

[ashaya]

[ don't respond to this. this is an umbrella for spock prompts. ]

i. en mí todo ese fuego se repite (toward week's end)

[ashaya]

[ Pushed from the periphery, what is base in Spock has been forced to focused wanderings. For so much of the duration, Spock had made himself a shadow to his Captain. Unerringly, he had followed with precision the exacting nature of Jim's steps. As though pieces to a singular, as though bound by some unseen thread, their determination had been as one breath, as one firmer understanding. But, now—

It is only him. It is only Spock, untethered from the physical gravity of Jim. It is only him, the runs of alleys turned over and abandoned in the pursuit of something more fundamental. On the hunt for, it would seem, something more important.

For those who have grown wise to their prior tricks, they may find it most curious that a fellow Gnosia has left their snares unmanned. And for those who have fallen astray of the newest? No one arrives to check. Once as though clockwork, they are left to fend for the elements. Those who are spry and determined may find themselves able to claw themselves out, unimpeded. But, still: those that have been untriggered are ferocious; they spare no power behind the force of their offset, the inevitable snap back more likely to be literal than figurative.

But, where does that leave Spock?

At night, Spock traces the periphery of the lessening boundary. Where he can, he presses his palm flush to the brick and mortar of the remaining buildings within their containment, as though one feeling for something that those beyond can neither see nor sense. He learns to cover his tracks, but the wounds he had earlier acquired from Claude chafe beneath the lay of his robes. They weep, occasional and sluggish, the scent sharp and copper when one catches it. At times, he paces through the funneled nets that he would once occupy — dead-end alleys, narrow crevices between the oppressive scrape of buildings.

Often, he is not heard until one is already upon him. And by then, the deafening silence that uncoils from his frame as any emotional riot from another's is already scrabbling up against the surface. To another's psyche, it should feel as though a bruise, a greater hunger that subsumes. A splintering grind, sand against a wound. This is just the start of what one might compare it to, alien as it should be. Alien as it is.

During the day, Spock does not deviate. He does not deviate, but he does slow. Glimpses of him reveal more in the full cast of the sun, robes stained an unappealing bronze in spots. It becomes obvious where it is it originates, his skin mottled with a greener liquid (blood?) that crawls beneath and above the surface. His hands are at times slick with it, knuckles bruised in coppers and ochres.

Has he stopped to rest at all? It's unclear. But, it is obvious that he has no intention to truly lean into the opportunity until something gives or someone comes his way. ]

ii. en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida (aftermath)

[ashaya]

[ For one who seems most inclined not to rest, Spock somehow excels at it where warranted.

In the most immediate aftermath, whatever safehouse they have selected to stow the remaining Chosen is alight with periodic flashes of activity; injured shuffle in, injured shuffle out. Those who remain are often (and too occasionally) up and about, but Spock remains strangely motionless. Even when he prodded and poked by more medically experienced hands, he does not seem to respond in the slightest. All that signals that he is alive? The steady, cyclical sound of his respiration.

In the proceeding hours (days?), Spock is not often by himself in rest. Jim lingers, confined too as he is. Even when Spock stirs from the earlier state he was in, it is not atypical to find them huddled together on one of the narrow cots toward the back. Whether they are asleep or awake? It does not seem to matter, but Spock makes himself most often small enough to accommodate Jim wherever he deems it. He still looks rough, but less so then when he arrived. The green of his blood is (for the most part) contained beneath the skin and the residual bruising resembles the burnish upon bronzed statues where it lays the deepest. But, most peculiarly, one might observe that Jim and Spock seem to rarely talk to each other directly during their stay here. And yet, they seem to understand the other perfectly.

Weird.

Now may be a good enough time to catch up on the other side of things, make awkward plans. Maybe exchange a few apologies? Or none of the above. Maybe there's a bone to pick in there somewhere. ]

cw for wound care

[homeostatic]

( For McCoy, it's nothing short of a blessing that Spock's deep in a healing trance when he arrives. Not that he hasn't much to say – he has a great many things to get off his chest – but it keeps him focused on the work ahead.

Here and there he offers an explanation ahead of an action, a warning before he sets to pulling out those arrowheads, or that the long rinse of antiseptic after might sting. Once one injury has mostly knitted under the steady glow of the regenerator, he moves onto the next, worst to least, until Spock's time as a Vulcan pincushion has come to an end. )

Hold still, ( he cautions dryly, when he wipes away the dried, flaking blood from his skin, and chases out any lollygaggers so he can trade Spock's ruined attire for clean sweats and a warm sweater. Then, he leaves him to his rest. )

We ought to get you back home, ( McCoy later announces over his tricorder, once Spock seems to have left that trance, ) Free the cot for someone else.

>> closed prompts (for spock)

[ashaya]

[ don't respond to this. this is a closed prompt umbrella. however, if you would like a closed prompt, please hmu at askefise. ]

not your cask of amontillado (claude).

[ashaya]

[ Between tether and twine, Spock and Jim have had their fair share of captures in the past few nights. Never one without the other, Jim had been the bait and Spock the inevitable kite. He was faster, surer of foot — his lungs were primed for thinner atmospheres, for ever fiercer hunts.

Claude may have known the name of his people, but there is no equivalent for learning what they might do on the fly. He'd paced himself enough for Claude to keep up, for Jim to take the back alleys that terminated before their den proper where they'd kept their quarry in the meantime. The drape of his robes is enough to signal the intent to bank left or bank right, the scent of salt and surf ever thickening the further they go on.

It isn't a surprise, that they have chosen that warehouse of theirs — Spock and Jim both know on both ends of the proverbial line that Claude is familiar with the layout, but perhaps not as familiar with the run. Not as familiar, perhaps, with the perceived dead-end once they reach the front doors.

And, perhaps, not as familiar with the way one can sneak up from behind.

Spock turns upon his heel, not at all out of breath and dark eyes bright before the entry, Jim flitting in to drive Claude further toward the middle of the backroad.

With one in front and one behind, there is no notable exit unless one attempts to shimmy through the narrow gaps between the buildings that surround them.

And what, really, is Claude to do? ]

[feintofhart]

[ It's funny, isn't it? He's been here for over a year, more than enough time to become complacent underneath Aldrip's comparatively peaceful lifestyle, used to a life in which he doesn't have to get up and make decisions that could mean life or death for himself and his people, doesn't have to grimly consider a war that kills those he once called friends, doesn't have to bear the burden of planning the deaths of people he would rather break bread with.

And then overnight, he fell right back into it as though he'd never stopped -- never mind the faintly horrified looks his friends and comrades gave him when he'd floated the very real possibility that they had to kill their family and friends, when he'd gotten straight to planning his own offense, when he'd voiced his willingness to get his hands dirty. Forever the pragmatist, Claude has made the effort to secure the safety of those he knows are still in possession of their right minds.

He's had a few run-ins by the time he's caught, an injury here and an injury there, exhaustion already dogging his heels, a sense of impending doom seizing upon his heart. He knows that he must have a reputation among the Gnosia by now, more proactive than his fellows in attempting to neutralize them, but he hadn't expected to be caught now. Stupid, he tells himself. Go out in pairs, not alone. That's what he'd told the others, but he'd wanted to get some supplies, and -- well, no point in regretting it now. It is what it is.

Once he realizes he's been bracketed in, his eyes widen with recognition. ] Not you two too, [ he breathes, sounding genuinely dismayed. He hasn't known the two of them for very long. But he likes them. He likes them a lot. They're quick and principled, determined and intelligent, proactive in a way that belies what he considers to be the kind heart underneath it all.

Unfortunately, that makes them very dangerous enemies indeed. He plasters a smile on his face, looking for the world as cheerful and friendly as ever as his hand moves to his side, reaching for a dagger concealed there. ]

I don't suppose I can convince you fellows to just let a guy go? [ The hilt of his dagger finds its way into his palm, twisted towards his body to conceal it amidst the swaths of fabric of his clothes. ] I'm sure we can make some sort of deal. You know I have all sorts of things that could help benefit your cause.

[ It's not going to work. But he'll always try. ]

[ open ] Jim Kirk ~ Star Trek AOS

[finalfrontiersman]

[ ooc: open prompts for Jim below!

Jim is Gnosia for this event; feel free to injure him, or let me know if you’d like him to catch you. He won’t be murdering anyone, but he’s not afraid to lightly maim in order to drag you back to the lair. ]

[ open ] it takes two

[finalfrontiersman]

[ Jim’s consciousness drifts.

In and out, like the tide upon the shore, soaking the sand of his mental landscape beneath it in roiling spume - Jim’s waking hours are spent in varying states of awareness. Sometimes, he is more lucid, other times…there is a hunger, inside him. Bit by bit, the layers of his mind seem to warp, unable to keep the hunger buried in the core of his being any longer - and equally as unable to satiate it. There seems no end to the craving that seeps from the dark, yet his mind clings to what Was, however precarious, dangling over the precipice. The howling void looms, buffeting the edges of his mind, sharpening its golden edges into razor sharp points - yet still, Jim is held back from plunging completely into the dark, clinging to the shreds of his psyche.

There is a moon beside him.

Another consciousness, nestled against his own - flaring when there is the touch of familiar hands, the scintilla of something greater than the self burning hot, a flare to drive the shadows back, tendrils winding deeper into Jim’s mind, until he can no longer tell the difference between him and Them. In these moments, conscious thought ebbs stronger; the moon forces the waves to bend to its gravitational pull, allowing Jim to surface for air, amid the howling chaos.

He cannot control the hunger, yet the hunger cannot control him, either. Not while the moon holds him in its orbit, reflects the light he cannot hold within himself back at him. Jim and the hunger are at an impasse, a war neither can win.

But Jim cannot curb the impulses completely.

There is a monstrous shadow that oozes beside Jim, silent as death, but ever present; if it’s odd to see two Gnosia docile in each other’s company, well, they do make a strange pair. Jim touches the shade’s clawed hand, raises it to his chest, and slashes it across his shirt, wordless understanding passing between them.

The routine is the largely same, with only a few variations - someone is passing by when they hear Jim’s timed cry of pain; he stumbles around the corner, holding a hand to the slash on his chest. Is he bleeding? It’s too dark at night to see, from here - but Spock, just behind him, a wraith in his robes, is clear enough. ]

No! Spock, please listen to me - you have to listen to me! You’re not yourself - !

[ Jim is backed into the next alley, out of sight, the pleased hum echoing in his mind from all around - from the hunger and the beast, leashed to his moon. Was the performance convincing enough to lure in another victim? ]

( ooc: this option will initiate a jim & spock tag team encounter! )

[grappler]

[yeah. she's carrying her gauntlets around. this place was acting even crazier than usual, and she had absolutely no time for it.

when she saw Jim come running around the corner, she puts her fists up as she takes in the scene.]

Get away from him! I'll take care of it.

[maybe.]

[ open ] make it out of sight

[finalfrontiersman]

[ Jim and Spock have outfitted a warehouse by the docks with all manner of traps; blocked alleyways with clever sheets of metal to manufacture dead ends to their maze, doused areas with water to set them buzzing with electricity, hidden mantraps beneath strategically placed debris. Within the warehouse itself, they’ve set up holding areas, where their victims languish with their wounds. They seem to forget about those they’ve caught, once they come to deposit another - probably a good thing, if not for the fact that it made those trapped there sitting ducks for other Gnosia. Perhaps someone will attempt a rescue…but counting on that with Jim and Spock prowling around seems a slim chance, indeed.

At present, Spock is asleep, his consciousness a static-filled ache in Jim’s mind - but without his balm present, the hunger swells - and the itch within Jim grows, untamable.

This is what pushes him out on his own, when he might not be otherwise. He checks the traps, circling them like a wolf. Perhaps he’ll find someone ensnared in one of them…or perhaps someone will find him, another unconscious victim slung over his back as he spirits them back to the veritable dungeon they’ve prepared.

If he’s been caught in the act, the question remains - are you there to stop him, or help him? ]

[ closed ] Jim Kirk ~ Star Trek AOS

[finalfrontiersman]

[ ooc: closed prompts for Jim. Feel free to hit me up via the usual suspects; PM, Discord, Plurk, or Jim’s contact post. ]

[ closed ] nightmare gameshow for Bones

[finalfrontiersman]

[ There is a gnawing, roaring pit in the back of Jim's mind. It writhes, oily and wailing, seeping into the empty spaces of his consciousness with a hideous glee as he rouses, pulling his piecemeal sentience to the surface. He's avoided sleep, this creature that's inhabiting Jim's skin; the nightmares are overwhelmingly persistent, nothing but death which the shrieking void seems to enjoy - or worse yet, the torment of life. The Gnosia hunger is strong, but Jim - he has known true hunger, true pain, and when he takes to rest, the Gnosia feeds on it - pulls it to the surface, smothering the rest of him beneath the suffocating memories.

Jim wakes from the fitful sleep in an unfamiliar place, eyes darting wildly as he slowly sits up, taking in the town square, cobblestone beneath his hands. It's eerie, with City Hall dark and shuttered, empty - like most of Aldrip, these days. This doesn't seem to bother him, though the question remains - how did he get here? More importantly - where was the Spock...

He can feel him still, though the bond that threads through their addled minds is dormant, for the moment - less active, presumably Spock is still asleep. The crawling itch on his skin is harder to fight without him there; they had, unwittingly, tethered each other to what little of their right minds still remained. Jim stands, scanning over the person next to him.

Jim recognizes him, though it feels like a distant memory - it feels like ages, since he's lived that life - the Gnosia has consumed his existence for the past...he's not sure. Time, it seemed, was consumed as well. He also knows, however, that his fleeting ruse, his barely-passable attempts at humanity - the tactic Jim and Spock have been utilizing to lure people into their traps, secreting them off to be stored, a collection of bodies - is pointless here. Before the Gnosia had taken hold, they had left a note - the Doctor knew what he was. He would not be fooled.

It's probably a good thing the screen is separating them, a red line surrounding their feet, no doubt set to zap them should they try to cross it - they can't reach each other, and they can't get leave without answering the questions that are to follow. Jim doesn't even read the first one projected on the screen, leaning closer to it - it's a decidedly threatening motion, gaze flickering over the transparent divider - looking for a weakness, perhaps.

Jim's attention finally settles squarely on Bones, a sharp grin pulling at his mouth, all teeth. There's a rip in his shirt - several, actually, it resembles a shirt at his shoulders, but not so much, the further down it goes. Dried blood is caked on his pants, though it's difficult to determine if any of it is his - what can be seen, however, is that some of it is decidedly copper-based; Spock was hurt, and badly enough that there's a decent amount of him spilt over Jim. ]

Hi, Bones. [ Jim's tone is deceptively sweet, and he presses a hand against the screen, transparency flickering around his palm - but it holds, and he makes no further attempt to reach him. ] Long time, no see.

[spidermenaces]

(they mess up. seems like a spider-man thing, to mess up. peter has more than once, but this time, he's actually scared of listening to the reprimand. maybe he should have actually charged the damn suit, if he had, then none of this would have happened. guilt, fault, and he couldn't let her see him injured, disoriented, couldn't put her through the worry of seeing him defeated.

and then he made it worse, of course. he breathes in, closing his eyes shut tight when he turns the knob. here goes nothing.)

... Gwen?

[arachnerina]

[The last few days had not been good for Gwen. First, their mission had gone horribly awry. While she did heal Jim as planned, that had been an ordeal in itself, and learning Spock had overpowered Peter and taken him had not been pretty (Seriously, sorry to whoever's car that was that she flipped). That meant a good 24 hours of stressing and worrying about his safety, worrying if she was going to lose someone else she cared about, after hearing Jim so viciously blame her for doing just that.

She barely slept, even when she tried, it was just nightmares, and just when she thought she was going to have Peter back in her arms again, he was-- gone. It had taken her a minute to recover from the overload that healing Spock had done to her. She knew about his touch telepathy, but it was still worse than she expected, and when she was finally aware enough to look for Peter, she couldn't find him.

Once she was sure Jim and Spock were good, she hurried home, thinking maybe he went there, but...nope. So she texted. She texted again. Called him, even.

No response.

That only made her anxiety worse. Did something happen to him? Surely if he was in bad shape, Jim or Spock would've done something, but she didn't even get a chance to assess him, to even know if he was okay.

Not knowing what else to do, she took to the city, swinging the streets she knew like back of her hand now, stopping at their favorite look out spots, but still-- nothing.

Where was he?

Could he have been sent back home? Wouldn't he had disappeared from her contacts, if that was the case? And if he was fine, why was he ignoring her? Why didn't he come home? She had a million questions, zero answers, and anxiety through the roof. But all she could do was go home and wait and hope he finally answered her.

It honestly feels like an eternity when the door finally opens and there he is. Even if she's been worried and frustrated, it's still a gut reaction that she launches herself up from the couch and wraps her arms around him.]

Peter, oh my god-- [He looks worse for wear, but in one piece, and that's all that mattered right now. The relief at seeing him alive and okay is all she needs for the moment. But relief won't last too long, and her frustration will return soon enough.]

[spidermenaces]

(perhaps the way they don't differ isn't always a blessing. he, too, had been drowning in his own thoughts, his own fears, anxieties. for starters, it had been the suit. he never told her why he cared so much about it, even when there was the malfunction issue with the charging - aldrip had too little juice for stark technology such as nanites. she told him he maybe should be more careful with it, and he never listened, because of how he felt when he put it on.

because he wore it, and it failed, he had been captured, he had gotten hurt, and he couldn't put her in another situation in which she had to face the loss of yet another peter parker. the guilt he feels, he can easily imagine her feeling too - all the 'i shouldn't have's she might have thought.

to show up with his injuries, have her stitch, have her see - an instinct told him to not do that, and it worsened it. he doesn't deserve the hug, he knows, but with how much he wanted to see her, he can't bring himself to reject it, wrapping arms around her just as strongly, pressing lips as kisses in between his apologies.)

I'm... I'm so sorry, Gwen, I messed up, I shouldn't have-- I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.