[ Stronger? Yes, he would have no such quibble with that.
Spock had opted for the way of his father, encouraged by the words of his mother. He had opted to pursue what was logical and reasonable, what was controlled and focused. To be reduced to such a base thing, to feel with the whole of the self in measures both full and in part - his mind and his body might only take so much. It might only take so much, before it starts to give.
For all that the brain alights with the fires of infection, for all that his blood rages hotter than any plak tow - Spock is only a sum of his parts. Halved across species, limped and poisoned and pressed to the corners of his skull by the dark, he is only so capable as he is for the depths of his stubbornness. His stubbornness and the prospect of Jim, both lost and found to him. That he drags along Peter is more an afterthought, one hand clamped tight at the shoulder. It is not enough to bruise, the Gnosia knows that such value is diminished if he injures him too much, but his bared hand rests close to the cusp of fabric and skin. They do not need to know that this will not hurt Peter, not really. They do not need to know that this touch will be more suggestion, the ability to meld and mangle hampered by the distal proximity to his qui'lari - by his own reservations.
For as much as the Gnosia thrives and breeds and weaves through the synaptic firings, he is still Spock. And Spock? Well, Spock has no real wish to cause excess harm to anyone. Not like this. Not like that. And he knows, too, that Jim knows as much. He knows as much, because he knows himself. He knows them.
But, it is the sound of their footsteps that draws his attention. Long before they appear at the entrance to the park, he hears them. Jim, stiff in the way of his gait and Gwen lighter still. His end of the bond throbs, sympathetic and suddenly snapped to the full of some awareness. The want to see and steady and solidify laps end over end, inchoate and inconsolable. A tide, that pulls and locks before it ebbs.
He doesn't call out to them. He needn't have to. He dare not steer Peter out into the open, but he moves position. Within the dotted architecture that breaks against the greenery of the park, Spock extends out from behind the curved base of some faceless monument a pale, stained hand.
The robes he's worn throughout the excursion are tattered at the cuff, stained with the copper color of his oxidized blood.
Where?
It less a word than it is a feeling, a need. He would have Gwen show Jim first. To confirm, though he might feel how close Jim must be. Like one spooling thread about a bobbin, he works the impression of closer against the bond.
no subject
Spock had opted for the way of his father, encouraged by the words of his mother. He had opted to pursue what was logical and reasonable, what was controlled and focused. To be reduced to such a base thing, to feel with the whole of the self in measures both full and in part - his mind and his body might only take so much. It might only take so much, before it starts to give.
For all that the brain alights with the fires of infection, for all that his blood rages hotter than any plak tow - Spock is only a sum of his parts. Halved across species, limped and poisoned and pressed to the corners of his skull by the dark, he is only so capable as he is for the depths of his stubbornness. His stubbornness and the prospect of Jim, both lost and found to him. That he drags along Peter is more an afterthought, one hand clamped tight at the shoulder. It is not enough to bruise, the Gnosia knows that such value is diminished if he injures him too much, but his bared hand rests close to the cusp of fabric and skin. They do not need to know that this will not hurt Peter, not really. They do not need to know that this touch will be more suggestion, the ability to meld and mangle hampered by the distal proximity to his qui'lari - by his own reservations.
For as much as the Gnosia thrives and breeds and weaves through the synaptic firings, he is still Spock. And Spock? Well, Spock has no real wish to cause excess harm to anyone. Not like this. Not like that. And he knows, too, that Jim knows as much. He knows as much, because he knows himself. He knows them.
But, it is the sound of their footsteps that draws his attention. Long before they appear at the entrance to the park, he hears them. Jim, stiff in the way of his gait and Gwen lighter still. His end of the bond throbs, sympathetic and suddenly snapped to the full of some awareness. The want to see and steady and solidify laps end over end, inchoate and inconsolable. A tide, that pulls and locks before it ebbs.
He doesn't call out to them. He needn't have to. He dare not steer Peter out into the open, but he moves position. Within the dotted architecture that breaks against the greenery of the park, Spock extends out from behind the curved base of some faceless monument a pale, stained hand.
The robes he's worn throughout the excursion are tattered at the cuff, stained with the copper color of his oxidized blood.
Where?
It less a word than it is a feeling, a need. He would have Gwen show Jim first. To confirm, though he might feel how close Jim must be. Like one spooling thread about a bobbin, he works the impression of closer against the bond.
He coaxes, tired and starved as he is. ]