He should think that the Doctor ought to be having a right “fit” by now, as Jim would so term it. Complete with exaggeration of what he would like to do to their skins and any colorful insults. He would make quite the display of it, hands weaving incomprehensible patterns through the open air, face turning a steadier shade of purple. However, the good Doctor is not here and so there is no judgement that may be cast upon them for their seemingly stubborn impasse.
"Your considerations shall always be counted," Spock says, softer than he ought and softer than most should ever muster. The jest drawn is not jest at all and Spock has known of it. He has played with words in such fashions, drawn them about his fingertips to imply instead of lie, to exaggerate where he required obfuscation. That Jim weaves language in the same manner does not surprise him. He has encountered it times innumerable but had so rarely been upon the receiving end of it. Why it is he garners it now is not without mystery, but still Spock feels oddly compelled to curtail it. As he opens his mouth again, thinking perhaps to append further declarations, he finds himself beginning to shiver in earnest.
He tells himself that it is simply part of the process, that (typically) autonomic movements are essential to temperature regulation and detail a safer baseline, but it starts from the back of his neck. It notches along his spine, works down to the soles of his feet. The ribs beneath Jim’s hand rise, the next exhalation hitching on reflex. It takes much of the controls he has left to rein it, to contain it, but he manages. He manages, just as Jim manages to settle the tidal quality of his own thoughts, golden grain and golden skin. He sees for a moment himself as Jim, seedlings taken root. Sam. Against the back of his eyelids, the jab mirrors those found in many Human dynamics. He knows, innately in the ways that someone who has served so closely to him, that Jim had grown to favor the poetry for what it represented. He knows that Jim—
His own recollections settle and overlay, side-by-side. Snippets of what Jim gives him, matched with the quiet of a child tucked in his father’s estate. Dark haired and dark eyed, he turns the book over in his palms and tries to view the title without disruption. He can almost get it right, can almost structure the letters in ways that make sense to him. He moves his mouth, contemplative and soundless, and then:
“Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,” he recites, his voice held against the way a wary warmth blooms across the bank of his shoulder, in the spaces between what is Spock and what is his Captain, “As with your shadow I with these did play.”
He knows, before he knows, that he should move. He knows he should inform Jim that they are likely to be successful in the endeavor to warm him momentarily, that they should look for a means to escape their current predicament. He thinks he should open his eyes, stir beneath the hand that keeps him still without true weight or power behind it. He thinks, but then—Jim rests his forehead against him. His movements are easy, untroubled. He wonders, as Spock wonders, when was the last time anyone might have touched him in such a way. His mother, perhaps. Held as a child. Kept safe in the cradle of her arms. A former lover. Temporary, momentary, fleeting—
There is no expectation. Not here. Jim does not hold out for more than what Spock might give him and Spock, too, does not demand anything more. It is just them. Necessity or not, it is just this.
And, in the next moment, it is the rumbling overhead. A tired sounding ding of antiquated electronic confirmation. If Spock is suddenly ensuring that Jim remains close by as their little raft begins to heave steadily upward? Well, it’s an easy tell. He snakes a hand back, far steadier than before, and settles it over the fabric that he’d dutifully tied over the injury that Jim had endured. Where he lays it shouldn’t touch it directly, but even so.
Even so—
Where are they next unceremoniously dumped? Well, at least it will register as dry.
no subject
"Your considerations shall always be counted," Spock says, softer than he ought and softer than most should ever muster. The jest drawn is not jest at all and Spock has known of it. He has played with words in such fashions, drawn them about his fingertips to imply instead of lie, to exaggerate where he required obfuscation. That Jim weaves language in the same manner does not surprise him. He has encountered it times innumerable but had so rarely been upon the receiving end of it. Why it is he garners it now is not without mystery, but still Spock feels oddly compelled to curtail it. As he opens his mouth again, thinking perhaps to append further declarations, he finds himself beginning to shiver in earnest.
He tells himself that it is simply part of the process, that (typically) autonomic movements are essential to temperature regulation and detail a safer baseline, but it starts from the back of his neck. It notches along his spine, works down to the soles of his feet. The ribs beneath Jim’s hand rise, the next exhalation hitching on reflex. It takes much of the controls he has left to rein it, to contain it, but he manages. He manages, just as Jim manages to settle the tidal quality of his own thoughts, golden grain and golden skin. He sees for a moment himself as Jim, seedlings taken root. Sam. Against the back of his eyelids, the jab mirrors those found in many Human dynamics. He knows, innately in the ways that someone who has served so closely to him, that Jim had grown to favor the poetry for what it represented. He knows that Jim—
His own recollections settle and overlay, side-by-side. Snippets of what Jim gives him, matched with the quiet of a child tucked in his father’s estate. Dark haired and dark eyed, he turns the book over in his palms and tries to view the title without disruption. He can almost get it right, can almost structure the letters in ways that make sense to him. He moves his mouth, contemplative and soundless, and then:
“Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,” he recites, his voice held against the way a wary warmth blooms across the bank of his shoulder, in the spaces between what is Spock and what is his Captain, “As with your shadow I with these did play.”
He knows, before he knows, that he should move. He knows he should inform Jim that they are likely to be successful in the endeavor to warm him momentarily, that they should look for a means to escape their current predicament. He thinks he should open his eyes, stir beneath the hand that keeps him still without true weight or power behind it. He thinks, but then—Jim rests his forehead against him. His movements are easy, untroubled. He wonders, as Spock wonders, when was the last time anyone might have touched him in such a way. His mother, perhaps. Held as a child. Kept safe in the cradle of her arms. A former lover. Temporary, momentary, fleeting—
There is no expectation. Not here. Jim does not hold out for more than what Spock might give him and Spock, too, does not demand anything more. It is just them. Necessity or not, it is just this.
And, in the next moment, it is the rumbling overhead. A tired sounding ding of antiquated electronic confirmation. If Spock is suddenly ensuring that Jim remains close by as their little raft begins to heave steadily upward? Well, it’s an easy tell. He snakes a hand back, far steadier than before, and settles it over the fabric that he’d dutifully tied over the injury that Jim had endured. Where he lays it shouldn’t touch it directly, but even so.
Even so—
Where are they next unceremoniously dumped? Well, at least it will register as dry.