[ While it is easiest to come to the conclusion after the fact that Aldrip never quite permits a graceful exit to any problem, in the moment?
In the moment, Spock finds himself spooling his sentences around his fingers like fine filament upon the floor of the eponymous "catio," one (1) Claude von Riegen somewhere nearest his approximate eight (or inexact bottom left). He can feel the vibration of his breathing through the soles of his feet, the bonded pair of Terran felines that seem to most often take up residence in the newly repaired space examining them from "on high." Their bright eyes glimmer as Spock tips his head as if to oblige their innate fascination with the dark curls of his hair, the minute shift of his ears a poor showing against the wide sweep of their own. ]
Fascinating, [ he murmurs, orange zest and lemon-bright against the rough surface of his tongue. By his estimations, he has said as much at least 13.4 times since their consumption of the isolated substance, the barrier that lays between his mind and Jim's held up only by the muscle of his own repression and years of staunch practice. He wonders if the porous quality of his shields make for something more or less reassuring, lacey shells chewed through by parasitic teeth and abrasive saline. ] Even now, they remain as though locked in the other's orbit.
[ To his own eyes, there is a communion of dust motes and smeared satellites. They contrast not at all with the patterning of their coats, but rather are complimentary. He knows it to be a process of his mind, its filtering of the substance ingested, but it is rather more preferable to prior intoxicants of similar quality.
Perhaps one's internal state is a decisive factor after all. ]
A THOUSAND MILES AWAY (CLOSED TO CLAUDE.)
In the moment, Spock finds himself spooling his sentences around his fingers like fine filament upon the floor of the eponymous "catio," one (1) Claude von Riegen somewhere nearest his approximate eight (or inexact bottom left). He can feel the vibration of his breathing through the soles of his feet, the bonded pair of Terran felines that seem to most often take up residence in the newly repaired space examining them from "on high." Their bright eyes glimmer as Spock tips his head as if to oblige their innate fascination with the dark curls of his hair, the minute shift of his ears a poor showing against the wide sweep of their own. ]
Fascinating, [ he murmurs, orange zest and lemon-bright against the rough surface of his tongue. By his estimations, he has said as much at least 13.4 times since their consumption of the isolated substance, the barrier that lays between his mind and Jim's held up only by the muscle of his own repression and years of staunch practice. He wonders if the porous quality of his shields make for something more or less reassuring, lacey shells chewed through by parasitic teeth and abrasive saline. ] Even now, they remain as though locked in the other's orbit.
[ To his own eyes, there is a communion of dust motes and smeared satellites. They contrast not at all with the patterning of their coats, but rather are complimentary. He knows it to be a process of his mind, its filtering of the substance ingested, but it is rather more preferable to prior intoxicants of similar quality.
Perhaps one's internal state is a decisive factor after all. ]