Jim has often struggled with slowing down, taking a break. And for all that he can bounce from one illogical topic to the next, for all that his brain can make leaps and bounds on a whim, he can also be of singular, intense focus, sometimes, and that has a tendency to wear a person down (even if they suck at realizing it). Somehow, though, the idea of spending that required restful time with Spock is not as daunting or as unpleasant as it is when Bones keys his way into Jim's quarters and threatens him into a poor facsimile of rest. Perhaps it's because - if Jim's being totally honest - he doesn't really like spending time with himself. Alone with his thoughts, inevitably, tends to be an uncomfortable place to be.
But with Spock, it's. Different. It's always easier to ignore the wandering ruminations that tend to plague him when in the company of others, but with Spock - sometimes, it's as though Jim forgets they exist completely. No longer looming over his shoulder, he is free to just simply...be. He's never voiced this to anyone, of course, because he can hear that rude, sneering voice that belongs to no one and everyone already: More comfortable with a Vulcan? What are you repressing that badly?
But it's - not so. Spock is brilliant and sharp and witty; he makes Jim laugh, the kind of laugh you forget is possible until it explodes out of you unexpectedly, unbidden. He's kind, and fiercely compassionate, if one knows where that compassion hides itself: in the gentle tip of his head, the secreted curve of his lip, the practiced, careful motions of his hands.
While Jim knows he holds Spock's friendship (is lucky to), it's too much, and too silly, to think that Spock could feel precisely the same sense of ease in his own presence (because when has his presence ever been a balm?), but Jim appreciates it on his own terms, nonetheless.
So in the rare instances when Spock shows him the merest of glimpses beneath the outer layer, the tiniest of chinks in the armor he wears so wholly and completely, Jim knows better than to poke at it. He has no desire to chip away at the soft thing that lurks beneath; as much as he teases and jests, it's never been with malice. Instead, he simply cups his hands, and waits. Waits to catch him, promises unerringly that always that he will, should his friend ever crack and fall.
He never does. Still, Jim promises anyway.
He's not sure what would happen, if that day ever comes; and Jim doesn't bother to speculate. In any scenario, however, Jim cannot think of anything that would make him turn away, anything that he would not grasp with both hands before it hit the ground. It's an impossibility.
Spock turns to settle after a moment, Jim watching him patiently, meeting his dark gaze with the same firmness with which he suggested the solution in the first place. Hands extended, poised to catch, though Spock never stumbles. Jim would be remiss if he didn't, and when it comes to Spock, that's one thing he endeavors never to be. He's careful to try and keep his thoughts as clear as they can be as Spock tucks up against him, brushing his bare skin in several places. Jim is prone to forgetting himself, on occasion; a hand on Spock's shoulder here, a nudge with his elbow there. There's always clothing between them to dampen the effect of his transgressions. Here, after the discussion they just had, it's impossible for Jim to be unaware.
Still, he tries to keep the embarrassing pleased feeling out of his mind at Spock's words, settling his arm carefully around Spock's midsection. His hand flattens against Spock's side, over his heart, feeling the lively vibration under his palm. "Why, Mr. Spock, you say the sweetest things."
His tone is gentle, the tenor of his thoughts clear where they sizzle against the points of contact; a tacit acceptance, an appreciation. He need not embarrass Spock with further declarations; what's happening right now is surely enough to do that on its own. Jim's hand soothes against Spock's side, resuming the warming motion from before, slow circles over his heart. "I will. And you, Spock. Please. I won't be offended."
And then Jim scoots forward, and presses the whole of his chest against Spock's back, drawing him in firmly.
Jim's plan takes a moment to make itself immediately apparent, the chaos of his mind and emotions swelling, as is only normal. Pushing them down has never had any efficacy, so Jim takes a deep breath, warm air exhaled slowly against the back of Spock's neck, and tries a different approach.
coldsprayofwater - trustworryisheokay - determinationwarmthfond - Can't just tell yourself not to think of a pink elephant -
His thoughts reorder, resolve settling over him, another puff of warm breath against Spock's cool skin.
To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,
The poem rises in Jim's mind with clarity of focus; he's clearly committing himself to remembering it, and not shying away from the memories and feelings that surface when he does. Giving into them makes it easier, at least in Jim's opinion; it's easier to filter out the swirl of chaos and conflict, to keep calm. Not blank - that is beyond him, as they're both well aware - but calm, perhaps, he can do.
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
The warmth of sunlight, pouring in through the window while he flips through brittle pages. The Yale Shakespeare, the set of completed works, Jim devouring them fervently. Easy to tune out the yelling downstairs, easy to find comfort and joy in the poems and plays - love, heartbreak, anger, everything. The one he has memorized is his favorite, one he returned to again and again.
Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
The words taste good in his mouth, ripened sweet just like the fruit he bites into; lazy days beneath the apple tree, the summer haze leaving him untouched in the cool of the shadows. The book is worn, creased from use, but he is 13 and does not understand he should be careful; he carries the unbelievably thick tome with him most days, his name scrawled carelessly on the inside cover.
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.
no subject
But with Spock, it's. Different. It's always easier to ignore the wandering ruminations that tend to plague him when in the company of others, but with Spock - sometimes, it's as though Jim forgets they exist completely. No longer looming over his shoulder, he is free to just simply...be. He's never voiced this to anyone, of course, because he can hear that rude, sneering voice that belongs to no one and everyone already: More comfortable with a Vulcan? What are you repressing that badly?
But it's - not so. Spock is brilliant and sharp and witty; he makes Jim laugh, the kind of laugh you forget is possible until it explodes out of you unexpectedly, unbidden. He's kind, and fiercely compassionate, if one knows where that compassion hides itself: in the gentle tip of his head, the secreted curve of his lip, the practiced, careful motions of his hands.
While Jim knows he holds Spock's friendship (is lucky to), it's too much, and too silly, to think that Spock could feel precisely the same sense of ease in his own presence (because when has his presence ever been a balm?), but Jim appreciates it on his own terms, nonetheless.
So in the rare instances when Spock shows him the merest of glimpses beneath the outer layer, the tiniest of chinks in the armor he wears so wholly and completely, Jim knows better than to poke at it. He has no desire to chip away at the soft thing that lurks beneath; as much as he teases and jests, it's never been with malice. Instead, he simply cups his hands, and waits. Waits to catch him, promises unerringly that always that he will, should his friend ever crack and fall.
He never does. Still, Jim promises anyway.
He's not sure what would happen, if that day ever comes; and Jim doesn't bother to speculate. In any scenario, however, Jim cannot think of anything that would make him turn away, anything that he would not grasp with both hands before it hit the ground. It's an impossibility.
Spock turns to settle after a moment, Jim watching him patiently, meeting his dark gaze with the same firmness with which he suggested the solution in the first place. Hands extended, poised to catch, though Spock never stumbles. Jim would be remiss if he didn't, and when it comes to Spock, that's one thing he endeavors never to be. He's careful to try and keep his thoughts as clear as they can be as Spock tucks up against him, brushing his bare skin in several places. Jim is prone to forgetting himself, on occasion; a hand on Spock's shoulder here, a nudge with his elbow there. There's always clothing between them to dampen the effect of his transgressions. Here, after the discussion they just had, it's impossible for Jim to be unaware.
Still, he tries to keep the embarrassing pleased feeling out of his mind at Spock's words, settling his arm carefully around Spock's midsection. His hand flattens against Spock's side, over his heart, feeling the lively vibration under his palm. "Why, Mr. Spock, you say the sweetest things."
His tone is gentle, the tenor of his thoughts clear where they sizzle against the points of contact; a tacit acceptance, an appreciation. He need not embarrass Spock with further declarations; what's happening right now is surely enough to do that on its own. Jim's hand soothes against Spock's side, resuming the warming motion from before, slow circles over his heart. "I will. And you, Spock. Please. I won't be offended."
And then Jim scoots forward, and presses the whole of his chest against Spock's back, drawing him in firmly.
Jim's plan takes a moment to make itself immediately apparent, the chaos of his mind and emotions swelling, as is only normal. Pushing them down has never had any efficacy, so Jim takes a deep breath, warm air exhaled slowly against the back of Spock's neck, and tries a different approach.
coldsprayofwater - trustworryisheokay - determinationwarmthfond - Can't just tell yourself not to think of a pink elephant -
His thoughts reorder, resolve settling over him, another puff of warm breath against Spock's cool skin.
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,
The poem rises in Jim's mind with clarity of focus; he's clearly committing himself to remembering it, and not shying away from the memories and feelings that surface when he does. Giving into them makes it easier, at least in Jim's opinion; it's easier to filter out the swirl of chaos and conflict, to keep calm. Not blank - that is beyond him, as they're both well aware - but calm, perhaps, he can do.
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
The warmth of sunlight, pouring in through the window while he flips through brittle pages. The Yale Shakespeare, the set of completed works, Jim devouring them fervently. Easy to tune out the yelling downstairs, easy to find comfort and joy in the poems and plays - love, heartbreak, anger, everything. The one he has memorized is his favorite, one he returned to again and again.
Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
The words taste good in his mouth, ripened sweet just like the fruit he bites into; lazy days beneath the apple tree, the summer haze leaving him untouched in the cool of the shadows. The book is worn, creased from use, but he is 13 and does not understand he should be careful; he carries the unbelievably thick tome with him most days, his name scrawled carelessly on the inside cover.
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.