For all that Vulcans are quick to survive, they are quicker still to hold to a certain pride. That Spock has some of the latter, however, is of little consequence. It holds no influence on the subject, not when the subject is Jim. Not when the odds were stacked against them both and only one might find the way out. For all that Spock might find himself thinking that the lack of true death lessens the impact, he finds he too cannot abide Jim’s. Were it to come down to who and how and when, Spock finds himself twisted up in the sentiment of hoping it is him. Selfishly, illogically, he hopes it is Jim who outlives him.
And so, it is that that drives him too to study what manners of “out” that they have. There is chance still to forfeit, but he knows they are both too stubborn for it. The end might hold some crucial information. There is the possibility to free and be freed. Both. No matter how sluggish the process, he focuses on keeping them both afloat and alive. The walls are too high to climb. The waters are too dark and cold to survive. But, perhaps, there is a condition—
Jim prattles on about this and that, pulls Spock’s wandering mind what is here and present. Jim’s hand still rubs against his side, still brings with it the challenge to not lean into, but he knows it is nervousness. He has seen it before, on away missions. He has seen it in the ready room, in the med bay. He has seen it in the minutes before anyone might retrieve them, blood green as the grasses that live in the Terran heartlands smeared across the red break of hands, his heart, his wrists. Hazel and blue and hazel again, the eyes are the same. There is no difference, in the end.
“Naturally,” Spock tells him, his dark head tipped just so to view despite their perilous proximity. In all universes, in all times, Spock has always known him to be sharp and full of wit. He has known him to be the only Human to ever best him in chess. Spock has known him, in some ways, as he has known himself.
“I find these terms acceptable.” A minor pause. He means the books, the visiting of the library. He knows where it is situated, has been there several times before. It comes across in the fanning of pages, the momentary glimmer of brick and marble. A façade, both alike and unlike his own. “Though, perhaps it’s best to first examine Aldrip’s current options.”
A distraction, more for Jim. Jim, who has innumerable allergies. Jim, whom he watches closely, for any means or mode of reaction. He knows such shock can come on quickly, even more so in some Humans. Jim has always dealt with it. But, sometimes—sometimes, Spock remembered for him. Caught it for him.
“Jim,” he murmurs, eyes still and dark and quiet. He turns his head, gaze fixing upon the fathomless waters that churn beneath them. The sun of Jim’s attention is too much to meet, too much to soak in. It makes a mess of all that is vacant and abandoned in him, the loneliness that lives between the slats of his ribs. If he were to cave to it now, if he were to let it settle into the places between the marrow and soul, there would be no letting it go. There would be no uprooting it. He listens to the thrum of his own heart in his ears, to the way it both settles and skips, and knows it is not Jim’s burden to share. It is not his to grapple with, to answer it with mercy it neither deserves nor permits. All along his side, Jim’s hand is a weight as much as it is a secreted comfort. He cannot possibly ask of him—
“My controls are… Compromised.” His fingers twist in his lap, the cut and valley of his knuckles whitening under the movement. For all that Jim’s fondness and irritation and exasperation and fear strike against his skin, pluck across his nerves as though some sacred score, Spock knows his own limitations. He knows the cowardice that roils up in him, that bites against the delicate flesh of lungs and makes tight the walls of his stomach. He knows what Jim values in him, as much as he knows too what Spock values in him. For that, because of that, how might Spock ask for anything more?
“I will not be able to maintain adequate shielding, if I am to focus upon my physical state.” I’m sorry, he does not say. But, need he? The sentiment is carried in the dip of his shoulders, the downward tuck of his chin. It wears the face of shame, perhaps, but it is not less difficult to decipher. Spock heaves a breath, the heat of his own blood beginning to return in crawling increments to the most vital parts of him. “I do not wish to cause you discomfort.” I’m sorry, that you worry for me like this .
no subject
And so, it is that that drives him too to study what manners of “out” that they have. There is chance still to forfeit, but he knows they are both too stubborn for it. The end might hold some crucial information. There is the possibility to free and be freed. Both. No matter how sluggish the process, he focuses on keeping them both afloat and alive. The walls are too high to climb. The waters are too dark and cold to survive. But, perhaps, there is a condition—
Jim prattles on about this and that, pulls Spock’s wandering mind what is here and present. Jim’s hand still rubs against his side, still brings with it the challenge to not lean into, but he knows it is nervousness. He has seen it before, on away missions. He has seen it in the ready room, in the med bay. He has seen it in the minutes before anyone might retrieve them, blood green as the grasses that live in the Terran heartlands smeared across the red break of hands, his heart, his wrists. Hazel and blue and hazel again, the eyes are the same. There is no difference, in the end.
“Naturally,” Spock tells him, his dark head tipped just so to view despite their perilous proximity. In all universes, in all times, Spock has always known him to be sharp and full of wit. He has known him to be the only Human to ever best him in chess. Spock has known him, in some ways, as he has known himself.
“I find these terms acceptable.” A minor pause. He means the books, the visiting of the library. He knows where it is situated, has been there several times before. It comes across in the fanning of pages, the momentary glimmer of brick and marble. A façade, both alike and unlike his own. “Though, perhaps it’s best to first examine Aldrip’s current options.”
A distraction, more for Jim. Jim, who has innumerable allergies. Jim, whom he watches closely, for any means or mode of reaction. He knows such shock can come on quickly, even more so in some Humans. Jim has always dealt with it. But, sometimes—sometimes, Spock remembered for him. Caught it for him.
“Jim,” he murmurs, eyes still and dark and quiet. He turns his head, gaze fixing upon the fathomless waters that churn beneath them. The sun of Jim’s attention is too much to meet, too much to soak in. It makes a mess of all that is vacant and abandoned in him, the loneliness that lives between the slats of his ribs. If he were to cave to it now, if he were to let it settle into the places between the marrow and soul, there would be no letting it go. There would be no uprooting it. He listens to the thrum of his own heart in his ears, to the way it both settles and skips, and knows it is not Jim’s burden to share. It is not his to grapple with, to answer it with mercy it neither deserves nor permits. All along his side, Jim’s hand is a weight as much as it is a secreted comfort. He cannot possibly ask of him—
“My controls are… Compromised.” His fingers twist in his lap, the cut and valley of his knuckles whitening under the movement. For all that Jim’s fondness and irritation and exasperation and fear strike against his skin, pluck across his nerves as though some sacred score, Spock knows his own limitations. He knows the cowardice that roils up in him, that bites against the delicate flesh of lungs and makes tight the walls of his stomach. He knows what Jim values in him, as much as he knows too what Spock values in him. For that, because of that, how might Spock ask for anything more?
“I will not be able to maintain adequate shielding, if I am to focus upon my physical state.” I’m sorry, he does not say. But, need he? The sentiment is carried in the dip of his shoulders, the downward tuck of his chin. It wears the face of shame, perhaps, but it is not less difficult to decipher. Spock heaves a breath, the heat of his own blood beginning to return in crawling increments to the most vital parts of him. “I do not wish to cause you discomfort.” I’m sorry, that you worry for me like this .