( 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

[spidermenaces]

(each second that he spends in this dream, the more he realizes that he never wants to do this again, whatever exactly this is. he can't tell, the flimsy realization of what is dream, what is reality, and whether either of them belong to him can't be anything other than that. dream-like qualities of what might as well be a reality boggle, and he tilts his head much like he has seen spock do so many times. a habit that he doesn't have in another life, one that is much far away.

he listens, because he must, but he doesn't know just what to do. his words come out, and they're not his, and there's even more expectancy of an answer, of a decision.

peter's hand just holds the one belonging to his older self-not-self. please, solve it.)

[ashaya]

[ And what is a dream to the dreamer? What is a dream for the one who crosses, the boundaries skipped and tumbled through? What Peter sees is no more and no less the core of something raw — something shelled and shucked and struck. Struck, as though a hand against the knuckles. The first, bitter dregs of love. Love, in ways that one can neither define nor refine. Love, in ways he says he cannot.

But, love he does. Love he does, as the image of himself stutters on within the background. Young eyes round and dark and glassy, there is more to the exchange. Sister, you can make out. Family, you can make out. As you slip your hand within the hand that is still and not your own, you can hear yourself. You can hear yourself, speaking.

But, I love you.

Love? Michael, younger and sharper, scoffs. You aren't capable of love.

Something shudders, seizes. The image about you freezes — again. What is Vulcan, you know to be Vulcan, shifts from under the feet. It fissures, unsteady and uncertain, but there too lies the oddity: you do not fall. The crevices that yawn beneath are crevices in name only. What is dark remains still dark, but there is something — it moves. A thousand threads and a thousand tongues, it glimmers wetly at the edge of the dream. It holds there, hungry.

You know it is not you. You know too, in the you that is you, that it is not Spock. ]

You are not meant to be here, [ comes Spock's voice, finally. The one you hold the hand of. It is only just lighter to the ear, but no less graveled than it is now. He smoothly moves into a crouch, his expression unreadable as he assesses you. But, you understand. You understand, innately, the conflict that plays out behind your own eyes. You know that you miss someone terribly, but the ache has gotten less. You know that something here wounds you, but the injury is smaller now in comparison.

What little is left of you is making an appearance, voice pitched to your own ears. As if the gnosia cannot hear you, if you are quiet enough. ] There are ways to rouse yourself.

[ There are indeed, but he cannot tell him. It is only the inclination that you will have to be sturdy and you will have to be quick. There is only this: he squeezes your hand, once or twice or thrice. Pauses. He repeats it, again.

Book, you parse. But, what book? ]