Instinct holds no cards to the chest, but neither does Jim in this domain. For all that Spock knows him to be bright and affable and painfully brilliant, he knows him too as this: insufferable, impossible, and obstinate in ways that rival any Vulcan under their moonless sun. He knows it the second the water sweeps above their head. Jim will entertain no debate (no matter how logical and sound) and the surety of his conviction cleaves through him with more ache than the icy current that threatens to unmoor them.
"I had not meant securing victory by drowning, Captain." The retort is dry, sharp off the tongue, but the irritation Jim feels seems to have dampened the heat of his own. It is hard to keep himself afloat, harder still to keep them both above the settling waves, but he's already been told off once before for his predilections. Self-sacrifice, Jim had claimed, as if he were not guilty of the same. Spock sniffs, shakes his hair out of his eyes, and tries not to think of the way Jim's nails dig into his skin.
Spock knows they may leave at any time. The stakes are lower here. He has a theory that he may be able to fool the presumed computer— but, Jim won't let him. He can feel the steady thrum of his conviction, the absolute certainty that they might get through the process together, and Spock knows he'll refuse to budge as much as Spock wants to argue it. He knows if he were attempt to sink now, he'd take Jim with him. He knows, somewhere deep in the unexamined parts of himself, that Jim would rather take the risk than risk him.
Spock knows he is the same.
But, for all he doesn't realize it, his brow knits. The furrow that always tells tells and if one can manage to convey the reluctance to keep themselves above water to better the odds for the other? Spock does a bang up job of it. This trait, like Jim's heels digging in at the slightest provocation in this arena, is a constant. No matter how many times Spock cites logic, disguises his pleas as reason, Jim will uncover the raw core of it. Even when he obfuscates the truth, Jim knows. He finds its ugly edges, turns it over his palms. Held up to the light of the day, Spock once tried to convince himself he loathed it.
But now? He finds himself seeking other ways.
"I advise seeking suitable debris," he says, pushing the suggestion along more through touch than by the timbre of his own voice. The water still moves about them, attempting to discover the boundaries of its new confines, but the depth has stabilized. At least, for the moment.
Spock doubts it will remain the case.
He has another three point six minutes to tread water before the weight of him own anatomy dooms them both, but fewer if one counts the onset of potential hypothermia. Spock will fall to it far quicker than Jim, but there is no need for them both to suffer it. Already, he begins to feel the paradoxical warmth settling into his extremities despite the dark, pine-like flush that settles along the tips of his ears, the high points of his face. Forcing it back will require more mental concentration than he might afford without the implicit barrier he keeps between them and so he cycles it before he might pinpoint anything of significant. Or, perhaps, anything with meaning without further scrutiny.
As they bob, Spock scans behind the curve of Jim's shoulder, notes the periphery. If there is debris left to salvage for any sort of floatation, it has yet to surface. However, considering the masses that brush unseen against their tangled legs?
no subject
Instinct holds no cards to the chest, but neither does Jim in this domain. For all that Spock knows him to be bright and affable and painfully brilliant, he knows him too as this: insufferable, impossible, and obstinate in ways that rival any Vulcan under their moonless sun. He knows it the second the water sweeps above their head. Jim will entertain no debate (no matter how logical and sound) and the surety of his conviction cleaves through him with more ache than the icy current that threatens to unmoor them.
"I had not meant securing victory by drowning, Captain." The retort is dry, sharp off the tongue, but the irritation Jim feels seems to have dampened the heat of his own. It is hard to keep himself afloat, harder still to keep them both above the settling waves, but he's already been told off once before for his predilections. Self-sacrifice, Jim had claimed, as if he were not guilty of the same. Spock sniffs, shakes his hair out of his eyes, and tries not to think of the way Jim's nails dig into his skin.
Spock knows they may leave at any time. The stakes are lower here. He has a theory that he may be able to fool the presumed computer— but, Jim won't let him. He can feel the steady thrum of his conviction, the absolute certainty that they might get through the process together, and Spock knows he'll refuse to budge as much as Spock wants to argue it. He knows if he were attempt to sink now, he'd take Jim with him. He knows, somewhere deep in the unexamined parts of himself, that Jim would rather take the risk than risk him.
Spock knows he is the same.
But, for all he doesn't realize it, his brow knits. The furrow that always tells tells and if one can manage to convey the reluctance to keep themselves above water to better the odds for the other? Spock does a bang up job of it. This trait, like Jim's heels digging in at the slightest provocation in this arena, is a constant. No matter how many times Spock cites logic, disguises his pleas as reason, Jim will uncover the raw core of it. Even when he obfuscates the truth, Jim knows. He finds its ugly edges, turns it over his palms. Held up to the light of the day, Spock once tried to convince himself he loathed it.
But now? He finds himself seeking other ways.
"I advise seeking suitable debris," he says, pushing the suggestion along more through touch than by the timbre of his own voice. The water still moves about them, attempting to discover the boundaries of its new confines, but the depth has stabilized. At least, for the moment.
Spock doubts it will remain the case.
He has another three point six minutes to tread water before the weight of him own anatomy dooms them both, but fewer if one counts the onset of potential hypothermia. Spock will fall to it far quicker than Jim, but there is no need for them both to suffer it. Already, he begins to feel the paradoxical warmth settling into his extremities despite the dark, pine-like flush that settles along the tips of his ears, the high points of his face. Forcing it back will require more mental concentration than he might afford without the implicit barrier he keeps between them and so he cycles it before he might pinpoint anything of significant. Or, perhaps, anything with meaning without further scrutiny.
As they bob, Spock scans behind the curve of Jim's shoulder, notes the periphery. If there is debris left to salvage for any sort of floatation, it has yet to surface. However, considering the masses that brush unseen against their tangled legs?
Maybe, just maybe, something will come their way.