I would invite you to try, Spock thinks in perfect pitch to the threat that blooms over Jim's skin in the form of gooseflesh and iron. Red, like the sands of Vulcan. Red, like Human blood. All the irritation and belligerence of a Terran cat getting tossed into an ice bath — it blisters all along the orderly constructs that make up Spock's mental landscape. It pours over and forth, determination to protect where Jim won't.
Jim had always placed himself last and expected Spock not to act in mirror of it. It had been something that had vexed him at the beginning of their acquaintance, troubled him toward the middle of it. Now? His protestations underscore his actions. His is an obstinacy that mirrors the fiercest of Kirk-like tantrums, because who else should look after their Captain? Who else, if Jim would refuse to do it himself?
Spock's faculties are starting to failing him, which he finds a certain degree less concern for than he ought. Moderate degrees of hypothermia then, Spock concludes distantly. His legs still tread the swirling depths of the artificial tides, but the pattern is beginning to get sloppy. He focuses on the hand that Jim extends and thinks it won't do any further harm now to grasp it. He'd done it before. He'd done it many times since. He blinks.
He focuses on the stubborn clench of Jim's jaw. He thinks, if he is able to hoist himself up, he might help stem the bleeding. The bleeding, Spock knows, is not his own. And yet —
"Momentarily, Captain," he manages, finally. The syllables slur against the break of his teeth, come strange and heavy off the tongue. He grasps at the debris and wonders again and... Rather ungracefully hauls himself up with the loosest grip he might manage upon Jim's wrist. He can feel the harsh cycling of worryconcernworry and knows it to be pushed back and fed with his own, but Jim needn't. Not about him. Not when he is — and then he's up, spread across the slats, breathing shallowly.
He's not shivering. Water roars about their makeshift raft, drips from the dark of his hair. His hand hasn't yet released Jim, but his fingers are loose enough to escape without considerable effort. He tastes the blood this close, the scent thick in his mouth as he manages up and onto his elbows. He can see Jim more as a golden inconsistency as he sits upright, the debris sinking and then stabilizing beneath its new weight distribution.
"You are bleeding," he says, as though this is new information. He blinks, slow and cat-like. And then — he's tearing a strip of fabric from the bottom of his pants. He doesn't even remember how he got it into his hands in the next moment, but it hardly matters. He leans forward slightly, mouth a thin, pale line. "Allow me."
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Jim had always placed himself last and expected Spock not to act in mirror of it. It had been something that had vexed him at the beginning of their acquaintance, troubled him toward the middle of it. Now? His protestations underscore his actions. His is an obstinacy that mirrors the fiercest of Kirk-like tantrums, because who else should look after their Captain? Who else, if Jim would refuse to do it himself?
Spock's faculties are starting to failing him, which he finds a certain degree less concern for than he ought. Moderate degrees of hypothermia then, Spock concludes distantly. His legs still tread the swirling depths of the artificial tides, but the pattern is beginning to get sloppy. He focuses on the hand that Jim extends and thinks it won't do any further harm now to grasp it. He'd done it before. He'd done it many times since. He blinks.
He focuses on the stubborn clench of Jim's jaw. He thinks, if he is able to hoist himself up, he might help stem the bleeding. The bleeding, Spock knows, is not his own. And yet —
"Momentarily, Captain," he manages, finally. The syllables slur against the break of his teeth, come strange and heavy off the tongue. He grasps at the debris and wonders again and... Rather ungracefully hauls himself up with the loosest grip he might manage upon Jim's wrist. He can feel the harsh cycling of worryconcernworry and knows it to be pushed back and fed with his own, but Jim needn't. Not about him. Not when he is — and then he's up, spread across the slats, breathing shallowly.
He's not shivering. Water roars about their makeshift raft, drips from the dark of his hair. His hand hasn't yet released Jim, but his fingers are loose enough to escape without considerable effort. He tastes the blood this close, the scent thick in his mouth as he manages up and onto his elbows. He can see Jim more as a golden inconsistency as he sits upright, the debris sinking and then stabilizing beneath its new weight distribution.
"You are bleeding," he says, as though this is new information. He blinks, slow and cat-like. And then — he's tearing a strip of fabric from the bottom of his pants. He doesn't even remember how he got it into his hands in the next moment, but it hardly matters. He leans forward slightly, mouth a thin, pale line. "Allow me."