The Gnosia writhe and ramble, the wet of their mouths both wild and weak. For all that they burn at the mind they'd found their tinder in, there is only so much that the body might do. There is only so much that the body might withstand. There is only so much that the Gnosia might command, might seize within its formless hands. There is only so much a body might do, molded to the shape of its emptiness.
Even Vulcans require rest and respite. Meditation. Meditation, to sort through the muddle of days - the emotions they hold. Secreted, between what was the body and what was the katra, dug into the places that one might not access without the permission of touch. Touch, which Jim does, without touching. His mind is a sun-sweet and flickering thing, pulled at the edges of Spock's dark periphery. He is many things and for all that the Gnosia hungers, Spock thinks dimly, how is it know how it feels?
The kick doesn't drop him. Not entirely. It staggers him, stuns him. It makes what is dark and viscous in him howl, but all that is pulled from the lips is short and sharp and quick. A gasp, a breath - from the damp of his lungs somewhere, the Gnosia still attempt to catch - to stage a reclamation -, but Peter is gone. Peter is gone and in the lack of impetus to move, the lack of want to lay down his own leverage, Spock has miscalculated. He has miscalculated and yet, somehow -
Rewarded.
Rewarded, by what is familiar and home and comfort. Rewarded, by what he has gone seeking to begin with. Rewarded, as Jim catches him as much as Spock tries (oh, he tries) too to catch him.
It isn't a graceful fall by any metric. They both land upon the crowns of their knees, Spock sucking in a breath around the ache that flows through in duplicate, triplicate. He feels the fatigue that Jim too feels, the bruising and blistering skin. And yet, and yet - the shuddering, slithering things in his mind go quiet. They still. They watch him, watch Jim, from behind the dark of Spock's eyes as his hand settles along the cut of his cheek.
He does not know if it is them or himself that makes a soft, stifled sound. He does not know if it is the relief of the Gnosia or Jim or himself that enfolds him, that drives him to turn into the heat of Jim's palm. He does not know what it is, who it is, that pulls his shoulders inward. That makes his hands, battered and bloodied as they are, scrabble for any inch of him. Any inch of Jim, who grips him so tightly that Spock thinks he might drift without the anchor of his body, the steadiness of him. ]
Jim, [ he murmurs, so soft and so reverent. He is tired. He is so, so tired and all it is that Spock and the Gnosia both want is to rest. To sleep. To recuperate, closer to the flare of Jim's mind. To bask, in what makes him him. His hands settle upon the round of Jim's shoulders, smooth along the strong line of his neck. They cradle, just as Jim cradles, the face he's long memorized. He presses cool palms against the curve of his jaw. Holds them, against the heat of his skin. ] Jim.
no subject
The Gnosia writhe and ramble, the wet of their mouths both wild and weak. For all that they burn at the mind they'd found their tinder in, there is only so much that the body might do. There is only so much that the body might withstand. There is only so much that the Gnosia might command, might seize within its formless hands. There is only so much a body might do, molded to the shape of its emptiness.
Even Vulcans require rest and respite. Meditation. Meditation, to sort through the muddle of days - the emotions they hold. Secreted, between what was the body and what was the katra, dug into the places that one might not access without the permission of touch. Touch, which Jim does, without touching. His mind is a sun-sweet and flickering thing, pulled at the edges of Spock's dark periphery. He is many things and for all that the Gnosia hungers, Spock thinks dimly, how is it know how it feels?
The kick doesn't drop him. Not entirely. It staggers him, stuns him. It makes what is dark and viscous in him howl, but all that is pulled from the lips is short and sharp and quick. A gasp, a breath - from the damp of his lungs somewhere, the Gnosia still attempt to catch - to stage a reclamation -, but Peter is gone. Peter is gone and in the lack of impetus to move, the lack of want to lay down his own leverage, Spock has miscalculated. He has miscalculated and yet, somehow -
Rewarded.
Rewarded, by what is familiar and home and comfort. Rewarded, by what he has gone seeking to begin with. Rewarded, as Jim catches him as much as Spock tries (oh, he tries) too to catch him.
It isn't a graceful fall by any metric. They both land upon the crowns of their knees, Spock sucking in a breath around the ache that flows through in duplicate, triplicate. He feels the fatigue that Jim too feels, the bruising and blistering skin. And yet, and yet - the shuddering, slithering things in his mind go quiet. They still. They watch him, watch Jim, from behind the dark of Spock's eyes as his hand settles along the cut of his cheek.
He does not know if it is them or himself that makes a soft, stifled sound. He does not know if it is the relief of the Gnosia or Jim or himself that enfolds him, that drives him to turn into the heat of Jim's palm. He does not know what it is, who it is, that pulls his shoulders inward. That makes his hands, battered and bloodied as they are, scrabble for any inch of him. Any inch of Jim, who grips him so tightly that Spock thinks he might drift without the anchor of his body, the steadiness of him. ]
Jim, [ he murmurs, so soft and so reverent. He is tired. He is so, so tired and all it is that Spock and the Gnosia both want is to rest. To sleep. To recuperate, closer to the flare of Jim's mind. To bask, in what makes him him. His hands settle upon the round of Jim's shoulders, smooth along the strong line of his neck. They cradle, just as Jim cradles, the face he's long memorized. He presses cool palms against the curve of his jaw. Holds them, against the heat of his skin. ] Jim.