“Bats are not native to Vulcan,” Spock mumbles, more for the way his mouth seems ill-equipped to cooperate with him. Jim’s hands are righting him, steadying him, the heady press of feelingthoughtfeeling another cacophony in the jumble of his current frame of mind. He feels the spray of droplets as Jim shakes out his hair, sees the healthier flush his body carries, but knows the propensity to talk at such a clip does not bode well. And so, Spock tries. He tries to recognize the full of what Jim is getting at, rearranging his words into an understandable pattern.
He opens his mouth again, tries for words as he settles more readily on the debris with Jim’s assistance.
"No," Spock says, his fingers still and firm as levies Jim's arm up into a stabler position. "When possible, you prefer to speak plainly.” It makes you accessible to the crew, relatable to the many. It pours through the spaces between them, each unfiltered pass of a hand. Spock knows he cannot maintain his shields whilst aiding in the progress of warming, but he attempts. He attempts, more for the sake of Jim’s own comfort than his own. When he was young, it had been difficult to align each piece of himself, to know which path he should walk. Caught between feeling and not, order and chaos, absolutes and uncertainties – he’d struggled to view the world that spun and twist before him. When finally given ground, he’d soon lost it. When finally committing to logical tenets, he’d soon lost the grasp of it. Sectioned, reordered, time out of time – it had taken much to build again. And yet, he did. He did, again. That anyone but himself should be expected to withstand what lays between? He can’t.
No matter how much they reach and no matter how much they give, the cycle begins again. Around and around they go, never taking no matter how much they might. Never taking, Spock thinks, how much Jim should. And so, as he winds the fabric about Jim’s arm with singular focus, he tries. He keeps out as much as he can, suffuses the burgeoning temptation of Jim’s pacing thoughts to abstract. What he gains is only surface, but the glimmer of fondness – it echoes. It resounds, fed through the heat of Jim’s palm. Up against his side, he knows the desire to stabilize. To revitalize. No matter how Jim seems to fair, his focus is…
Mister Spock, you are a stubborn man.
The water laps at the edges of their little raft. Spock remembers what he’s meant to be doing and sets to tying off the bandage, hand gentling over the knot he provides to keep it positioned. When he drops his hand, he pulls it back to his lap with the other. Knotted tight about themselves, he holds what little warmth he still has as though a flame against the winds of Vulcan’s open deserts. The feedback he receives now is duller, but it is no less potent.
“However,” Spock starts again and eventually, his voice a lower rasp. He blinks the remaining water from his eyes, rubbing the tips of his own fingers together in mirror of Jim’s insistent palm. “I've known you always to be fond of Human classics. You've read..."
Spock pauses. The heat of Jim’s skin burns as a brand against his skin, distracting for all it has purpose. His heart hums in stuttered steps against his side, as though one who leans over the safety of a parapet. He knows not where the bottom lies, but the lack of knowledge stirs in him both something welcome and lurid.
"I seem to have forgotten the precise number." Not an answer one might want to hear, but Spock knows that he knows it. It will come back to him. It will come back to him, as readily as his own control. He catches himself in the midst of leaning into a firmer pass of Jim’s palm, something dark and sour balling in the pit of his stomach. He takes a breath; thinks instead of the way he’d grown to often visit his Captain in the evening hours. Each time, if Jim was freed from the confines of paperwork, Spock would find a book in his grip. He would find that, while most times Spock was familiar with the contents, sometimes — Spock glances at Jim. For all that Jim frets about his wellbeing in this moment, Spock ensures that someone keeps an eye on Jim’s.
no subject
He opens his mouth again, tries for words as he settles more readily on the debris with Jim’s assistance.
"No," Spock says, his fingers still and firm as levies Jim's arm up into a stabler position. "When possible, you prefer to speak plainly.” It makes you accessible to the crew, relatable to the many. It pours through the spaces between them, each unfiltered pass of a hand. Spock knows he cannot maintain his shields whilst aiding in the progress of warming, but he attempts. He attempts, more for the sake of Jim’s own comfort than his own. When he was young, it had been difficult to align each piece of himself, to know which path he should walk. Caught between feeling and not, order and chaos, absolutes and uncertainties – he’d struggled to view the world that spun and twist before him. When finally given ground, he’d soon lost it. When finally committing to logical tenets, he’d soon lost the grasp of it. Sectioned, reordered, time out of time – it had taken much to build again. And yet, he did. He did, again. That anyone but himself should be expected to withstand what lays between? He can’t.
No matter how much they reach and no matter how much they give, the cycle begins again. Around and around they go, never taking no matter how much they might. Never taking, Spock thinks, how much Jim should. And so, as he winds the fabric about Jim’s arm with singular focus, he tries. He keeps out as much as he can, suffuses the burgeoning temptation of Jim’s pacing thoughts to abstract. What he gains is only surface, but the glimmer of fondness – it echoes. It resounds, fed through the heat of Jim’s palm. Up against his side, he knows the desire to stabilize. To revitalize. No matter how Jim seems to fair, his focus is…
Mister Spock, you are a stubborn man.
The water laps at the edges of their little raft. Spock remembers what he’s meant to be doing and sets to tying off the bandage, hand gentling over the knot he provides to keep it positioned. When he drops his hand, he pulls it back to his lap with the other. Knotted tight about themselves, he holds what little warmth he still has as though a flame against the winds of Vulcan’s open deserts. The feedback he receives now is duller, but it is no less potent.
“However,” Spock starts again and eventually, his voice a lower rasp. He blinks the remaining water from his eyes, rubbing the tips of his own fingers together in mirror of Jim’s insistent palm. “I've known you always to be fond of Human classics. You've read..."
Spock pauses. The heat of Jim’s skin burns as a brand against his skin, distracting for all it has purpose. His heart hums in stuttered steps against his side, as though one who leans over the safety of a parapet. He knows not where the bottom lies, but the lack of knowledge stirs in him both something welcome and lurid.
"I seem to have forgotten the precise number." Not an answer one might want to hear, but Spock knows that he knows it. It will come back to him. It will come back to him, as readily as his own control. He catches himself in the midst of leaning into a firmer pass of Jim’s palm, something dark and sour balling in the pit of his stomach. He takes a breath; thinks instead of the way he’d grown to often visit his Captain in the evening hours. Each time, if Jim was freed from the confines of paperwork, Spock would find a book in his grip. He would find that, while most times Spock was familiar with the contents, sometimes — Spock glances at Jim. For all that Jim frets about his wellbeing in this moment, Spock ensures that someone keeps an eye on Jim’s.
Who else would, he wonders, if not him?