“I beg to differ, seeing as you are indeed native to the planet Vulcan.” His words affect their usual back and forth, but Jim’s moderate relief is palpable given their skin on skin contact - the fact that Spock is even able to make an attempt is a good sign, at least. The water around them continues to rage, swirling beneath the debris, which is being steadily pulled towards the middle of the room by virtue of the conflicting currents. It kicks up a spray of cold water that has Jim shifting, positioning his back to hopefully catch most of it - but given the circumstances, there’s not much more he can do. Dammit.
“I take it you approve, given your penchant for efficiency.” Jim feels Spock’s flesh slowly begin to warm beneath his hand; it’s too much to hope that the green tinge will start to fade from Spock’s countenance, but hope valiently he does, regardless. There is so much to consider - too much, his mind spinning off in so many different directions - and it’s then that Jim once again realizes how uncomfortable it must be for Spock. Whoever had designed this challenge had certainly not been setting out to make it easy.
The top of the tower must hold something of import, or so he hopes.
Spock wraps his arm with unnecessary (in Jim’s opinion) care, and though Jim tries in vain to quiet racing thoughts, there’s little to be done about rampant emotionalism. At least there is no fear - just the quiet hum of anxiety, interlaced with adrenalinecoldfondexasperation. The trails of his blood disappear beneath the makeshift bandage, pinkish water diluting and then fading away completely as it rolls down his skin. It’s good Spock’s not bleeding, for a whole host of reasons - not least of which is the lack of available material on Jim’s person to fashion him a bandage, and humor enters the mix, dark though it may be.
The stutter is sliding quickly into the not a good sign category, but Jim takes it in stride, insofar as he can - though he can’t help but ponder over the rules from their tablet. Depending on the win conditions, even death could earn you a victory. That is not how Jim wants to earn a victory, no way, no how. And maybe death is dramatic, here, but a glance at the water still sets him wondering. Regardless, Jim’s not prime to letting Spock suffer. “Glad to know I’m a bookworm in every universe. Bones used to call me a stack of books on legs at the Academy, actually.”
“Don’t worry your Vulcan cranium about it, I can’t keep track either.” Jim thinks he sounded impressively offhand there, despite the concern leeching through. He smiles, a flash of confident, white teeth, so used to belying nerves it’s second nature. “I love paper books. Something about them, maybe the feeling of them? Have a little collection going, back home. Hey, I heard there’s a library here - we should go. Make an afternoon of it. I’ll buy you lunch, Commander, sweeten the pot.”
They deserve it, a break from challenges and escape prep. Jim takes his own deep, calming breath, letting it settle over his shoulders like a second skin. Okay, they’d made it. The crisis was far from over, but at least they’d made it (relatively) unscathed.
“We need to warm you up before we figure out how to get up there.” A cursory search of the environment makes it clear to Jim that there is not going to be easy; a platform above them, easily several hundred feet in the air. A problem for a moment from now, preferably when his Vulcan is back in thinking condition. Jim removes his hand from Spock’s side, peering at him seriously. “The best way I can figure to do that is to hug you, but I’m open to ideas. How are you doing?”
It’s not like he has anything else at his disposal to assist in the matter, given their state of dress and the room around them. No other useful debris has surfaced; it’s all flotsam and jetsam, yes, but nothing fabric. Even if there were, it’d be freezing and soaking wet; at least Jim’s skin is warm? Still, silly though it may sound, Jim’s aware of what that might do, and though he’s not fully apprised of the extent of Spock’s fraying control, he can take a pretty educated guess that it’s all a bit much, right now.
no subject
“I take it you approve, given your penchant for efficiency.” Jim feels Spock’s flesh slowly begin to warm beneath his hand; it’s too much to hope that the green tinge will start to fade from Spock’s countenance, but hope valiently he does, regardless. There is so much to consider - too much, his mind spinning off in so many different directions - and it’s then that Jim once again realizes how uncomfortable it must be for Spock. Whoever had designed this challenge had certainly not been setting out to make it easy.
The top of the tower must hold something of import, or so he hopes.
Spock wraps his arm with unnecessary (in Jim’s opinion) care, and though Jim tries in vain to quiet racing thoughts, there’s little to be done about rampant emotionalism. At least there is no fear - just the quiet hum of anxiety, interlaced with adrenalinecoldfondexasperation. The trails of his blood disappear beneath the makeshift bandage, pinkish water diluting and then fading away completely as it rolls down his skin. It’s good Spock’s not bleeding, for a whole host of reasons - not least of which is the lack of available material on Jim’s person to fashion him a bandage, and humor enters the mix, dark though it may be.
The stutter is sliding quickly into the not a good sign category, but Jim takes it in stride, insofar as he can - though he can’t help but ponder over the rules from their tablet. Depending on the win conditions, even death could earn you a victory. That is not how Jim wants to earn a victory, no way, no how. And maybe death is dramatic, here, but a glance at the water still sets him wondering. Regardless, Jim’s not prime to letting Spock suffer. “Glad to know I’m a bookworm in every universe. Bones used to call me a stack of books on legs at the Academy, actually.”
“Don’t worry your Vulcan cranium about it, I can’t keep track either.” Jim thinks he sounded impressively offhand there, despite the concern leeching through. He smiles, a flash of confident, white teeth, so used to belying nerves it’s second nature. “I love paper books. Something about them, maybe the feeling of them? Have a little collection going, back home. Hey, I heard there’s a library here - we should go. Make an afternoon of it. I’ll buy you lunch, Commander, sweeten the pot.”
They deserve it, a break from challenges and escape prep. Jim takes his own deep, calming breath, letting it settle over his shoulders like a second skin. Okay, they’d made it. The crisis was far from over, but at least they’d made it (relatively) unscathed.
“We need to warm you up before we figure out how to get up there.” A cursory search of the environment makes it clear to Jim that there is not going to be easy; a platform above them, easily several hundred feet in the air. A problem for a moment from now, preferably when his Vulcan is back in thinking condition. Jim removes his hand from Spock’s side, peering at him seriously. “The best way I can figure to do that is to hug you, but I’m open to ideas. How are you doing?”
It’s not like he has anything else at his disposal to assist in the matter, given their state of dress and the room around them. No other useful debris has surfaced; it’s all flotsam and jetsam, yes, but nothing fabric. Even if there were, it’d be freezing and soaking wet; at least Jim’s skin is warm? Still, silly though it may sound, Jim’s aware of what that might do, and though he’s not fully apprised of the extent of Spock’s fraying control, he can take a pretty educated guess that it’s all a bit much, right now.