[ It is only iterations — giving up, letting go. Letting go, to receive what has brought him back to the fold of the scraping buildings, the rounding greenery. And yet, he does not see that Gwen budges. Not entirely. Instead, he is focused upon his mark. He is focused upon Jim>, who lists into the static proximity of Gwen.
And yet, it is —
Reluctant to leave the shield of the monument, it is Jim's unsteadiness that causes him to move. That causes him to consider. That causes him, in the intervening moments, to study each in turn.
And then, it is thousand hands and mouths and eyes that stagger, waver — pull. They brush about the boundary of the bond, sleek and feathered animals. It is not a simple want, they think. It is the whole of some great need, some vast starvation. It is a vacancy, a light burned out in a room that Jim has left. The ache is bitter, tannic and earthy within the pit of his stomach. The more it is he waits for Jim to surpass her, the more that it too burns.
Spock's hand stutters at the cusp of Peter's shoulder. His breath, so often even and unpronounced, rattles like a wound.
Khart-lan.
And for all that Spock knows within himself the overflow of churning uncertainties, he knows best that each contrasted surety is carried within Jim. Jim, for whom he would do most anything. Jim, who makes even the Gnosia concede that there is no such stability without him.
He does not release him, not entirely. The intent to trade is obvious, steering him out into the open further as he does. He keeps behind Peter, using him as a shield as he limps further into the clearing, eyes blacker and murkier than they ought.
He crooks his other arm, unable to lift it entirely, but reaching for Jim even so. He's close enough now, that if he were to let go —
Ma ish-veh tan-tor. Nash-veh dungi palutunau du.
— he might have hand upon Jim in a moment. A moment, before they would have to run. ]
no subject
And yet, it is —
Reluctant to leave the shield of the monument, it is Jim's unsteadiness that causes him to move. That causes him to consider. That causes him, in the intervening moments, to study each in turn.
And then, it is thousand hands and mouths and eyes that stagger, waver — pull. They brush about the boundary of the bond, sleek and feathered animals. It is not a simple want, they think. It is the whole of some great need, some vast starvation. It is a vacancy, a light burned out in a room that Jim has left. The ache is bitter, tannic and earthy within the pit of his stomach. The more it is he waits for Jim to surpass her, the more that it too burns.
Spock's hand stutters at the cusp of Peter's shoulder. His breath, so often even and unpronounced, rattles like a wound.
Khart-lan.
And for all that Spock knows within himself the overflow of churning uncertainties, he knows best that each contrasted surety is carried within Jim. Jim, for whom he would do most anything. Jim, who makes even the Gnosia concede that there is no such stability without him.
He does not release him, not entirely. The intent to trade is obvious, steering him out into the open further as he does. He keeps behind Peter, using him as a shield as he limps further into the clearing, eyes blacker and murkier than they ought.
He crooks his other arm, unable to lift it entirely, but reaching for Jim even so. He's close enough now, that if he were to let go —
Ma ish-veh tan-tor. Nash-veh dungi palutunau du.
— he might have hand upon Jim in a moment. A moment, before they would have to run. ]