Funny that they should both neglect themselves, yet insist upon proper care for the other. It was illogical by anyone's count - Jim had his excuse, what was Spock's? But perhaps they - dare he say it - on occasion, stood to be a good influence on each other.
When they're not jumping off cliffs together, that is. Somewhere, Bones was rolling in his early grave.
"I'm going to have to beg to differ, there." Jim teases right back at him, helping the tone to shift to something lighter, unburdened, despite the truths they'd so neatly danced around moments ago. His subsequent response is low, murmured rhetorically; perhaps too low for another human to hear, something he might presume to be lost against the back of Spock's neck, if not for Spock's superior hearing range. "...Guess I'm the outlier that shouldn't be counted, hm?"
Jim commits himself fully to the task at hand, trying his best to stay on target. It's hard not to let his thoughts slip to the thousand other things they need to worry about - is it working, is Spock warming up? Will the water currents kick up a fuss and dump them right back in? How are they supposed to get up to the next platform? But he tries his best, taking it as a good sign when Spock shivers against him. He's also resolute in not letting this get awkward, as it so easily could if he were to let his mind wander towards - focus, focus, do not pass GO do not collect 200 credits -
Spock recognizes the sonnet, which is no surprise, and Jim smiles, closing his eyes to keep his concentration. His hand continues the slow circle, feeling Spock's pulse jump beneath his ministrations - a good sign, surely, that lifeblood was returning, flooding warm to everywhere it was sorely needed. Spock's skin is cool where they're pressed together, and Jim's definitely not thinking about the fact that this is the first time he's ever hugged Spock, and he definitely never thought they'd do such a thing shirtless - he's not thinking about it, see, he's FOCUSED - Spock offers another bit of poetry in return, one that blooms in Jim's mind even as he draws up the subsequent line:
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come.
A sandy-headed child, crunching grass underfoot, jumping around his brother on their way to school, the trek into town from the farmhouse. Sam, brushing him off even as Jim batted his eyes and recited poetry to him, laughing all the way. Why do you bother with that stuff, Jimmy?
Girls like it, duh. Jim had replied, but that wasn't true at all, he liked it. Liked the cadences, liked the endless flow the words possessed. Was drawn in by the promise of love, of unshakeable acceptance; the sweetness and the ache of it, even as, or perhaps especially as, a child -
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
He doesn't wonder what Spock sees in the poems, how he interprets them; he doesn't speculate, see, look at him not speculating? I wonder if - Because that would be rude, even though his brain is like a train he's never been in control of, veering towards whatever topic it so chooses.
They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Jim presses his forehead into Spock's shoulder, exhaling slowly, hand still sweeping against his side. Cuddling him and reciting Shakespeare, an activity Jim had certainly considered before, back when he was young to the world and romantic that way (but not necessarily with his First Officer) - it would be funny, if Spock weren't so cold. Maybe it would be funny in a day or two. Bones wasn't even here to laugh at him, though. Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
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When they're not jumping off cliffs together, that is. Somewhere, Bones was rolling in his early grave.
"I'm going to have to beg to differ, there." Jim teases right back at him, helping the tone to shift to something lighter, unburdened, despite the truths they'd so neatly danced around moments ago. His subsequent response is low, murmured rhetorically; perhaps too low for another human to hear, something he might presume to be lost against the back of Spock's neck, if not for Spock's superior hearing range. "...Guess I'm the outlier that shouldn't be counted, hm?"
Jim commits himself fully to the task at hand, trying his best to stay on target. It's hard not to let his thoughts slip to the thousand other things they need to worry about - is it working, is Spock warming up? Will the water currents kick up a fuss and dump them right back in? How are they supposed to get up to the next platform? But he tries his best, taking it as a good sign when Spock shivers against him. He's also resolute in not letting this get awkward, as it so easily could if he were to let his mind wander towards - focus, focus, do not pass GO do not collect 200 credits -
Spock recognizes the sonnet, which is no surprise, and Jim smiles, closing his eyes to keep his concentration. His hand continues the slow circle, feeling Spock's pulse jump beneath his ministrations - a good sign, surely, that lifeblood was returning, flooding warm to everywhere it was sorely needed. Spock's skin is cool where they're pressed together, and Jim's definitely not thinking about the fact that this is the first time he's ever hugged Spock, and he definitely never thought they'd do such a thing shirtless - he's not thinking about it, see, he's FOCUSED - Spock offers another bit of poetry in return, one that blooms in Jim's mind even as he draws up the subsequent line:
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come.
A sandy-headed child, crunching grass underfoot, jumping around his brother on their way to school, the trek into town from the farmhouse. Sam, brushing him off even as Jim batted his eyes and recited poetry to him, laughing all the way. Why do you bother with that stuff, Jimmy?
Girls like it, duh. Jim had replied, but that wasn't true at all, he liked it. Liked the cadences, liked the endless flow the words possessed. Was drawn in by the promise of love, of unshakeable acceptance; the sweetness and the ache of it, even as, or perhaps especially as, a child -
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
He doesn't wonder what Spock sees in the poems, how he interprets them; he doesn't speculate, see, look at him not speculating? I wonder if - Because that would be rude, even though his brain is like a train he's never been in control of, veering towards whatever topic it so chooses.
They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Jim presses his forehead into Spock's shoulder, exhaling slowly, hand still sweeping against his side. Cuddling him and reciting Shakespeare, an activity Jim had certainly considered before, back when he was young to the world and romantic that way (but not necessarily with his First Officer) - it would be funny, if Spock weren't so cold. Maybe it would be funny in a day or two. Bones wasn't even here to laugh at him, though. Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.