Himself, the Captain - how many times had they avoided the possibility leave? How many times had Spock had to remind him of his body's limitations? Even Jim, so sturdy and determined as he is, still required rest. He still, as Spock most often ensured, required nourishment.
And yet, was he not just as stubborn? Was he not just as reluctant? How many times had Jim insisted he eat with him? How many times had the Captain invited him to his quarters for chess?
"Statements cannot carry gustatory elements, Captain,” Spock says, tone lighter on the tongue than it is in the mouth. It takes considerable efforts to field the flood, to answer beneath the hand that had for so long accepted those who reached for it. For all that Spock might filter, there is sentiment that remains. Dark earth to rain, gold in the grit of sediment – Jim’s thoughts and emotions alight against the curious, blind things that rest beneath his skin. It Takeshi time, to quiet them. It takes concentration, to lead them from what they might only perceive as potential, as prospect. They are not Spock's to know, not Spock's interpret. He settles, centers. The water roils and laps. “Furthermore, preliminary evidence suggests that most would find my words quite unpalatable.”
Easy openings, easy conversational paths. Easy, he thinks, to remember a time before he might have accepted what it is that Jim means. What it was, he knows now, Jim always meant. For all the ways that they spar, for all the ways that they differ - there is no disquiet in him. This is Jim, he knows. This is Jim, whom he advises. Who advises him. If there is anything that Spock might know with certainty, it is that Jim has earned such loyalty. And Jim, too, has earned his.
Life upon a starship is seldom without hazard. He knows as well as Jim does that situations may crumble and dynamics may shift, but Spock has never once sought another position. He has never once considered an alternative, a charge he might call his. He does not want it, he thinks. He knows what solidity, competency, and efficiency define - and he knows it is not him. Not as captain. No, he knows, those ranks do not belong to him. He knows, as surely as the words and images that move in piecemeal across the boundary of what is himself and what is Jim.
“One-oh-four,” Spock recites without much thought, soft and faithful and sure. His skin burns with each point of contact, but it does not injure. It does not bring him harm. He focuses on the weight of Jim’s palm, the callouses both familiar and new. His heart thrums, rabbit-quick and restless, and recalls a time that such a revelation of placement had brought some alarm. He recalls, too, the moments that it had brought others relief. He shivers, the sense of cold beginning to return. He tamps down upon it, knowing it to be a sign of lessening degrees of hypothermia, but surely - he holds himself a burgeoning calm. A minor balm to residual worry he defines as not his own. He feels the fold of paper beneath fingertips, the summer of its tooth and wear.
He considers, the equilibrium of his body slowly returning.
"It is the star to every wand’ring bark. Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken."
no subject
Himself, the Captain - how many times had they avoided the possibility leave? How many times had Spock had to remind him of his body's limitations? Even Jim, so sturdy and determined as he is, still required rest. He still, as Spock most often ensured, required nourishment.
And yet, was he not just as stubborn? Was he not just as reluctant? How many times had Jim insisted he eat with him? How many times had the Captain invited him to his quarters for chess?
"Statements cannot carry gustatory elements, Captain,” Spock says, tone lighter on the tongue than it is in the mouth. It takes considerable efforts to field the flood, to answer beneath the hand that had for so long accepted those who reached for it. For all that Spock might filter, there is sentiment that remains. Dark earth to rain, gold in the grit of sediment – Jim’s thoughts and emotions alight against the curious, blind things that rest beneath his skin. It Takeshi time, to quiet them. It takes concentration, to lead them from what they might only perceive as potential, as prospect. They are not Spock's to know, not Spock's interpret. He settles, centers. The water roils and laps. “Furthermore, preliminary evidence suggests that most would find my words quite unpalatable.”
Easy openings, easy conversational paths. Easy, he thinks, to remember a time before he might have accepted what it is that Jim means. What it was, he knows now, Jim always meant. For all the ways that they spar, for all the ways that they differ - there is no disquiet in him. This is Jim, he knows. This is Jim, whom he advises. Who advises him. If there is anything that Spock might know with certainty, it is that Jim has earned such loyalty. And Jim, too, has earned his.
Life upon a starship is seldom without hazard. He knows as well as Jim does that situations may crumble and dynamics may shift, but Spock has never once sought another position. He has never once considered an alternative, a charge he might call his. He does not want it, he thinks. He knows what solidity, competency, and efficiency define - and he knows it is not him. Not as captain. No, he knows, those ranks do not belong to him. He knows, as surely as the words and images that move in piecemeal across the boundary of what is himself and what is Jim.
“One-oh-four,” Spock recites without much thought, soft and faithful and sure. His skin burns with each point of contact, but it does not injure. It does not bring him harm. He focuses on the weight of Jim’s palm, the callouses both familiar and new. His heart thrums, rabbit-quick and restless, and recalls a time that such a revelation of placement had brought some alarm. He recalls, too, the moments that it had brought others relief. He shivers, the sense of cold beginning to return. He tamps down upon it, knowing it to be a sign of lessening degrees of hypothermia, but surely - he holds himself a burgeoning calm. A minor balm to residual worry he defines as not his own. He feels the fold of paper beneath fingertips, the summer of its tooth and wear.
He considers, the equilibrium of his body slowly returning.
"It is the star to every wand’ring bark. Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken."
A trade, perhaps. A response.