Jim would rather forfeit in a heartbeat than have to sit there and watch Spock perish. That would be its own kind of loss, temporary or not (and dear God, the nagging but what if it isn't temporary? would surely kill him), and one far greater than any stupid tower challenge. Jim's been down this road before, in reverse, and he'd like to keep it that way - he'd much rather be the one taking the bullet, to affect a 21st century idiom. When in Rome, right?
"It's a date." The words slip out before Jim can think better of them, but the situation is too dire to linger on his terminal foot-in-mouth syndrome for long. It does sound nice, though - jeez, when was the last time Jim actually had shore leave? They've been in deep space for so long, the endless enormity of the cosmos spread before them, and then - he was here, and they were working tirelessly, eyes blurring in front of his computer station or fingers aching from handling delicate components. The only reason Jim really took breaks at all was to deal with Bones. And now this, this damned tower.
Yeah, they could do with a day off.
"What, you don't like bootleg indoor whitewater rafting?" Jim snorts, pressing his knuckles down onto the wood of their floating debris. It doesn't hurt, necessarily, but it does ground him in the moment - he's fine, he barely even drowned a little, but he knows how to ride adrenaline surges with the best of them. Knows how easily someone can crash from them, but he's fine. Really. Surely. He's not doing any worse than Spock, at least, and one of them has to be closer to optimal, or they're screwed.
But the way Spock says his name, his first name, so softly, immediately makes Jim's focus ten times more intense. For all that Spock doesn't emote - not in the typical ways, not unless you're well-versed in minute Vulcan facial expressions the way Jim is (his defense is that he stares at the guy's face any given number of waking hours why are you staring, Jim. Jim. Jim why are you staring.) - but for all that he doesn't emote, his body language does. The bundle of tension between his shoulderblades, the way his hands tangle together - Jim has seen Spock hold his composure many ways, but this is different. Something in Jim softens, achingly gentle, and he's glad he'd thought to remove his hand from Spock's side only moments before, so he doesn't have to feel it so acutely through Jim's own mind.
"Spock," Jim echoes back to him quietly, and the softness is evident in clear blue eyes - not pity, never pity, but the full force of Jim's empathy, unleashed. "You - "
Jim pauses for a moment, re-ordering how best to convey his sentiments, taking into consideration all the outlying factors. The unspoken apology they can both hear, the discomfiture that always surrounds addressing emotions so directly - not when Jim does it, when his humanity so frequently slips free of his control, but when Spock is the one compromised - the ignominy of it, even when it's just the two of them, even though Spock already knows there's nothing to apologize for.
But saying any of that would only make it worse, as Jim is well aware.
"You will always have my full confidence." Jim says instead, slowly, pressing upon how resolute he is in this regard. "Always and completely, Spock. And I know you would never abuse it. So I want you to hear me and understand, that? That will never cause me discomfort."
He can't rightly say it wouldn't cause Spock malaise, but for Jim? He would - and does - give the whole of himself, freely, knowingly. For the sake of his friend, Jim would give his life - everything else is just gravy.
"Please," Jim reaches out deliberately, settling a warm hand on Spock's shoulder, actually trying to focus this time. The thrum of trustwarmthfaithfriendship pulses at the forefront of his mind, as he tries his best to push out everything else. "Never allow yourself to labor under the impression that it would."
That Jim would ever turn away from Spock for what he is, for what he cannot control? That Jim would not take him as he is, every time, for all time? Preposterous.
"I have an idea, actually." Words that sometimes precipitate disaster, but Jim's not making any sudden moves to dive off their sanctuary into the churning water, so small blessings it is. He turns to lay on his side, the debris rocking slightly at the shift in body weight, raising an arm in clear invitation.
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"It's a date." The words slip out before Jim can think better of them, but the situation is too dire to linger on his terminal foot-in-mouth syndrome for long. It does sound nice, though - jeez, when was the last time Jim actually had shore leave? They've been in deep space for so long, the endless enormity of the cosmos spread before them, and then - he was here, and they were working tirelessly, eyes blurring in front of his computer station or fingers aching from handling delicate components. The only reason Jim really took breaks at all was to deal with Bones. And now this, this damned tower.
Yeah, they could do with a day off.
"What, you don't like bootleg indoor whitewater rafting?" Jim snorts, pressing his knuckles down onto the wood of their floating debris. It doesn't hurt, necessarily, but it does ground him in the moment - he's fine, he barely even drowned a little, but he knows how to ride adrenaline surges with the best of them. Knows how easily someone can crash from them, but he's fine. Really. Surely. He's not doing any worse than Spock, at least, and one of them has to be closer to optimal, or they're screwed.
But the way Spock says his name, his first name, so softly, immediately makes Jim's focus ten times more intense. For all that Spock doesn't emote - not in the typical ways, not unless you're well-versed in minute Vulcan facial expressions the way Jim is (his defense is that he stares at the guy's face any given number of waking hours
why are you staring, Jim. Jim. Jim why are you staring.) - but for all that he doesn't emote, his body language does. The bundle of tension between his shoulderblades, the way his hands tangle together - Jim has seen Spock hold his composure many ways, but this is different. Something in Jim softens, achingly gentle, and he's glad he'd thought to remove his hand from Spock's side only moments before, so he doesn't have to feel it so acutely through Jim's own mind."Spock," Jim echoes back to him quietly, and the softness is evident in clear blue eyes - not pity, never pity, but the full force of Jim's empathy, unleashed. "You - "
Jim pauses for a moment, re-ordering how best to convey his sentiments, taking into consideration all the outlying factors. The unspoken apology they can both hear, the discomfiture that always surrounds addressing emotions so directly - not when Jim does it, when his humanity so frequently slips free of his control, but when Spock is the one compromised - the ignominy of it, even when it's just the two of them, even though Spock already knows there's nothing to apologize for.
But saying any of that would only make it worse, as Jim is well aware.
"You will always have my full confidence." Jim says instead, slowly, pressing upon how resolute he is in this regard. "Always and completely, Spock. And I know you would never abuse it. So I want you to hear me and understand, that? That will never cause me discomfort."
He can't rightly say it wouldn't cause Spock malaise, but for Jim? He would - and does - give the whole of himself, freely, knowingly. For the sake of his friend, Jim would give his life - everything else is just gravy.
"Please," Jim reaches out deliberately, settling a warm hand on Spock's shoulder, actually trying to focus this time. The thrum of trustwarmthfaithfriendship pulses at the forefront of his mind, as he tries his best to push out everything else. "Never allow yourself to labor under the impression that it would."
That Jim would ever turn away from Spock for what he is, for what he cannot control? That Jim would not take him as he is, every time, for all time? Preposterous.
"I have an idea, actually." Words that sometimes precipitate disaster, but Jim's not making any sudden moves to dive off their sanctuary into the churning water, so small blessings it is. He turns to lay on his side, the debris rocking slightly at the shift in body weight, raising an arm in clear invitation.