This is where they understand each other, on a level unspoken. When to push and when to pull; Spock knows him better than anyone save Bones, which is not something Jim would have ever thought possible when they first met. And he, too, likes to think that he knows Spock in the same way; though there is always a part of Jim that wonders if he truly does know what goes on behind dark eyes, or if there are certain things that will always remain a mystery.
But it doesn't matter, really, the things they do or don't keep from each other. Jim knows Spock has his back, in the same way he would have Spock's - across dimensions, at this point. He trusts him, and moreover - he accepts Spock as he is, mysteries or not. Spock is his friend, and to Jim, his friends, his crew, are his family.
Still; Spock knows all of this, and lets Jim ease the way, no questions asked. He does not press at the bruise, if only to save them both the ache. Spock stands and collects his mug, to which Jim murmurs a thank you, shifting to fold his other leg underneath him instead.
What is he thanking him for? Maybe a bit of everything.
It's no surprise that Spock can suss out his true thoughts, though the circumstances behind them remain shrouded. Jim is good at a decent bluff, sure, but not like this. Not to him, and certainly not here, in the quiet comfort of Spock's living room, warm and weary from the day.
Yet, Spock is kind enough to let him have it anyway, the appearance that he's gotten away with it; he neatly cuts to the core of what Jim wanted to know, as if the question could ever be that simple. Guiltily, Jim knows this is a question he's not brave enough to ask his own Spock, and perhaps he's taking advantage by asking it of this Spock; there's a reason they don't talk about it, of course, Jim isn't suffering from lack of clarity. For all that Spock knows when not to push - it's a two-way street, and where Spock avoids a bruise, Jim avoids breaking a ribcage. To sate mere curiosity?
It's as unforgivable as to be unthinkable.
Perhaps it's deeper than curiosity, though, as Jim is so quick to write it off - perhaps it's a desire for connection, to know Spock more deeply; and maybe that's too human of him as to be acceptable in the context of their friendship, but he can't help it. Where Spock may have a choice to lean upon his Vulcan ancestry, Jim is only human. Spock has never rebuffed him for it, but Jim does his best not to press his luck.
Spock is quiet enough in the kitchen that Jim almost retracts the request, guilt washing over him, but the description captures his attention instantly. Perhaps, too, there is yet another layered reason; all he knows of Vulcan is its end, and that is no way to remember. It was beautiful, what he saw outside the window of the ship - or he thinks it would have been, had they not been dodging destroyed starship dishes, had adrenaline and horror not been overloading his nervous system. And then - falling, diving, fighting. Sulu and him, spinning thousands of feet above the surface, towards certain death - all he saw were the red rocks, the hot plasma in the bottom of the hole Nero had blasted.
He had never set foot on the planet, and then it was gone, all of...everything.
The Vulcan Spock describes is the one Jim wants to share, because he knows it deserves a better remembrance. Spock paints it so eloquently, too, cutting to the heart of the matter: an inky night sky covered in constellations of a different sector of the universe, no moon to interrupt the tableau. That was one of Jim's favorite things, whenever they had the chance to indulge; looking at a foreign night sky, tracing the familiar constellations, and mapping out the new ones. Where they'd head next, if he had any say in it - further, farther, faster.
The Vulcan botanical gardens had been purported to be some of the most beautiful in that quadrant of the galaxy, if Jim is recalling correctly, housed in an encased, glass greenhouse on the grounds of the Vulcan Science Academy. He can't say it's any surprise, given Spock's affinity for plants; he can easily imagine Spock tending to a small garden at his family home, gathering fresh K'rhtha for his tea.
Jim bows his head, simply listening, and doesn't move again until he senses Spock at his side, tension he didn't realize he was holding bleeding out of his shoulders as he straightens, accepting the mug with mild surprise; he hadn't realized he'd been refilling it, and soft gratitude spawns in his chest, warming him more than the drink.
"Thank you," Jim says quietly, meeting Spock's gaze. He holds it, so many swirling emotions in his expression it may be hard to read just one, and reaches out to accept the offering, cradling the mug in his hands. "It sounds..."
Beautiful. Heartbreaking. Mesmerizing. Jim doesn't have the right words, in the right order. "It sounds restful."
"I've never been." While not technically a lie, Jim amends almost immediately, thumb pressing against the lip of the mug absently. "I mean, I went once, but we - couldn't stay long."
Again, not technically a lie, but it burns a little on the way out, anyway. He's definitely learned a thing or two about talking like a Vulcan, at least. "Where's your favorite spot, if you had to pick one?"
There will always be more, it seems. That is a constant.
Humanity knots itself into infinite complexities, in ways that Spock cannot quite grasp with both hands despite being part. He had once had greater understanding of it, had worn it for those that he loved, but such openness had been stifled young. In the wake of all that would come to be, he would learn to reject it. He would learn to repress it, to carry the sting of disappointment. He would learn that, in order to be or exist—it matters little. What he knows now of the conversation is that he is indulging Jim. He is indulging him, as much as Jim indulges his evasion of his ship. It is a mutual benefit, a logical choice when all paths would lead to further exhaustion. He knows that Jim is fatigued. Humans require more rest than he ever did, but he knows too that Jim would readily refuse the prospect if posed so directly.
And so, he doesn’t.
Instead, he observes. He settles, this time at the other end of the couch that Jim occupies, his own tea forgotten in favor of sorting through what is laid before him.
“It is illogical to choose favorites,” he says, the lift of his voice a chancing at lightness. Though for himself it holds no benefit, playing the part is no true hardship. In Jim, he sees the unsaid. He hears it in the absences, as though the words he so often held were balled up in the chest like a fist. For all that he tells himself that Vulcans do not intuit, he can read the signs in the way Jim’s body. He can see the tension, each flow and seize and ebb. He can see the flicker of something sacred and savored, his eyes so clear that Spock is reminded of glass. And yet, they dart from him as much as they seek him.
Spock considers the weight of Jim’s pauses, sifts them as though the rivers of sand that spill from the high dunes of Vulcan. He thinks of the color red.
“There was a window, that overlooked a forest,” he says, eventually. He crosses one leg over the other, watches the loose fall of the fabric as it shifts to bell about an ankle. He fixes his gaze on it, the way the moon gilds its edge. Spock thinks of a weapon, the wicked curve of a lirpa. “When viewed from above, one could follow the progression of the roots and limbs down the hillside.”
He pauses, laces his fingers together. Even now, he can still see it. He can still walk the halls, hear his mother down the many flights of stairs. He still sees himself, can still feel the bubble of shame that rises within. How many days had he spent within that room, body alight with the ache of burgeoning bruises? How many times had he taken up his tablet—he runs one thumb over the joint of the other, the dark of his brow smoothing through the stitch he had not realized had formed there.
He does not think of laughter, the bright of a smile that no longer exists.
“I would spend many hours there, as a child.” The shadows the moon casts move across the floor, slow and liquid. Spock continues, quiet and fixed. “The light of the room and view beyond it were… Ideal. For meditation.”
He blinks once, drawing back to himself. It’s a slow process, made less apparent by the dim. He censors himself carefully, excising the emotion that lives within the heart of the memory. As though destoning the soft bodies of overripe fruits, he turns the tartness of being over his tongue— and is reminded, that there are places and times he might never return to. There are sights that will never be seen again. There is only himself in this moment. Himself and Jim.
Spock tips his gaze up. He knows there is no point in chasing what cannot be pinned, but he watches. He waits for the opening, the opportunity to confirm what it is Jim circles, but does not give. But then—he looks at him, without reservation. And softly, he says:
“What are you seeking, Jim?”
There is no demand in the question. It is only observation. He knows there is more that he wants, more that he is not articulating. But the opening is now his to use or discard. It is his now to do with as he wishes.
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expiationlogs2024-04-14 10:44 pm
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But it doesn't matter, really, the things they do or don't keep from each other. Jim knows Spock has his back, in the same way he would have Spock's - across dimensions, at this point. He trusts him, and moreover - he accepts Spock as he is, mysteries or not. Spock is his friend, and to Jim, his friends, his crew, are his family.
Still; Spock knows all of this, and lets Jim ease the way, no questions asked. He does not press at the bruise, if only to save them both the ache. Spock stands and collects his mug, to which Jim murmurs a thank you, shifting to fold his other leg underneath him instead.
What is he thanking him for? Maybe a bit of everything.
It's no surprise that Spock can suss out his true thoughts, though the circumstances behind them remain shrouded. Jim is good at a decent bluff, sure, but not like this. Not to him, and certainly not here, in the quiet comfort of Spock's living room, warm and weary from the day.
Yet, Spock is kind enough to let him have it anyway, the appearance that he's gotten away with it; he neatly cuts to the core of what Jim wanted to know, as if the question could ever be that simple. Guiltily, Jim knows this is a question he's not brave enough to ask his own Spock, and perhaps he's taking advantage by asking it of this Spock; there's a reason they don't talk about it, of course, Jim isn't suffering from lack of clarity. For all that Spock knows when not to push - it's a two-way street, and where Spock avoids a bruise, Jim avoids breaking a ribcage. To sate mere curiosity?
It's as unforgivable as to be unthinkable.
Perhaps it's deeper than curiosity, though, as Jim is so quick to write it off - perhaps it's a desire for connection, to know Spock more deeply; and maybe that's too human of him as to be acceptable in the context of their friendship, but he can't help it. Where Spock may have a choice to lean upon his Vulcan ancestry, Jim is only human. Spock has never rebuffed him for it, but Jim does his best not to press his luck.
Spock is quiet enough in the kitchen that Jim almost retracts the request, guilt washing over him, but the description captures his attention instantly. Perhaps, too, there is yet another layered reason; all he knows of Vulcan is its end, and that is no way to remember. It was beautiful, what he saw outside the window of the ship - or he thinks it would have been, had they not been dodging destroyed starship dishes, had adrenaline and horror not been overloading his nervous system. And then - falling, diving, fighting. Sulu and him, spinning thousands of feet above the surface, towards certain death - all he saw were the red rocks, the hot plasma in the bottom of the hole Nero had blasted.
He had never set foot on the planet, and then it was gone, all of...everything.
The Vulcan Spock describes is the one Jim wants to share, because he knows it deserves a better remembrance. Spock paints it so eloquently, too, cutting to the heart of the matter: an inky night sky covered in constellations of a different sector of the universe, no moon to interrupt the tableau. That was one of Jim's favorite things, whenever they had the chance to indulge; looking at a foreign night sky, tracing the familiar constellations, and mapping out the new ones. Where they'd head next, if he had any say in it - further, farther, faster.
The Vulcan botanical gardens had been purported to be some of the most beautiful in that quadrant of the galaxy, if Jim is recalling correctly, housed in an encased, glass greenhouse on the grounds of the Vulcan Science Academy. He can't say it's any surprise, given Spock's affinity for plants; he can easily imagine Spock tending to a small garden at his family home, gathering fresh K'rhtha for his tea.
Jim bows his head, simply listening, and doesn't move again until he senses Spock at his side, tension he didn't realize he was holding bleeding out of his shoulders as he straightens, accepting the mug with mild surprise; he hadn't realized he'd been refilling it, and soft gratitude spawns in his chest, warming him more than the drink.
"Thank you," Jim says quietly, meeting Spock's gaze. He holds it, so many swirling emotions in his expression it may be hard to read just one, and reaches out to accept the offering, cradling the mug in his hands. "It sounds..."
Beautiful. Heartbreaking. Mesmerizing. Jim doesn't have the right words, in the right order. "It sounds restful."
"I've never been." While not technically a lie, Jim amends almost immediately, thumb pressing against the lip of the mug absently. "I mean, I went once, but we - couldn't stay long."
Again, not technically a lie, but it burns a little on the way out, anyway. He's definitely learned a thing or two about talking like a Vulcan, at least. "Where's your favorite spot, if you had to pick one?"
no subject
Humanity knots itself into infinite complexities, in ways that Spock cannot quite grasp with both hands despite being part. He had once had greater understanding of it, had worn it for those that he loved, but such openness had been stifled young. In the wake of all that would come to be, he would learn to reject it. He would learn to repress it, to carry the sting of disappointment. He would learn that, in order to be or exist—it matters little. What he knows now of the conversation is that he is indulging Jim. He is indulging him, as much as Jim indulges his evasion of his ship. It is a mutual benefit, a logical choice when all paths would lead to further exhaustion. He knows that Jim is fatigued. Humans require more rest than he ever did, but he knows too that Jim would readily refuse the prospect if posed so directly.
And so, he doesn’t.
Instead, he observes. He settles, this time at the other end of the couch that Jim occupies, his own tea forgotten in favor of sorting through what is laid before him.
“It is illogical to choose favorites,” he says, the lift of his voice a chancing at lightness. Though for himself it holds no benefit, playing the part is no true hardship. In Jim, he sees the unsaid. He hears it in the absences, as though the words he so often held were balled up in the chest like a fist. For all that he tells himself that Vulcans do not intuit, he can read the signs in the way Jim’s body. He can see the tension, each flow and seize and ebb. He can see the flicker of something sacred and savored, his eyes so clear that Spock is reminded of glass. And yet, they dart from him as much as they seek him.
Spock considers the weight of Jim’s pauses, sifts them as though the rivers of sand that spill from the high dunes of Vulcan. He thinks of the color red.
“There was a window, that overlooked a forest,” he says, eventually. He crosses one leg over the other, watches the loose fall of the fabric as it shifts to bell about an ankle. He fixes his gaze on it, the way the moon gilds its edge. Spock thinks of a weapon, the wicked curve of a lirpa. “When viewed from above, one could follow the progression of the roots and limbs down the hillside.”
He pauses, laces his fingers together. Even now, he can still see it. He can still walk the halls, hear his mother down the many flights of stairs. He still sees himself, can still feel the bubble of shame that rises within. How many days had he spent within that room, body alight with the ache of burgeoning bruises? How many times had he taken up his tablet—he runs one thumb over the joint of the other, the dark of his brow smoothing through the stitch he had not realized had formed there.
He does not think of laughter, the bright of a smile that no longer exists.
“I would spend many hours there, as a child.” The shadows the moon casts move across the floor, slow and liquid. Spock continues, quiet and fixed. “The light of the room and view beyond it were… Ideal. For meditation.”
He blinks once, drawing back to himself. It’s a slow process, made less apparent by the dim. He censors himself carefully, excising the emotion that lives within the heart of the memory. As though destoning the soft bodies of overripe fruits, he turns the tartness of being over his tongue— and is reminded, that there are places and times he might never return to. There are sights that will never be seen again. There is only himself in this moment. Himself and Jim.
Spock tips his gaze up. He knows there is no point in chasing what cannot be pinned, but he watches. He waits for the opening, the opportunity to confirm what it is Jim circles, but does not give. But then—he looks at him, without reservation. And softly, he says:
“What are you seeking, Jim?”
There is no demand in the question. It is only observation. He knows there is more that he wants, more that he is not articulating. But the opening is now his to use or discard. It is his now to do with as he wishes.
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