Jim, for his part, focuses on the motion of the makeshift raft beneath them, rising and falling at a more sedate pace now - is the water slowing? Perhaps it's a good sign, though Jim's careful not to get his hopes up. This tower has been insistent on throwing them curveballs, and it just can't be that easy. Easy being drawing blood on his arm and freezing Spock half to death - they're just not that lucky.
Spock shifts against him, rising, settling, and Jim draws his legs in, molding himself along the curve of Spock's back. It's almost peaceful, with the gentle rocks of the waves - the kind of skin-on-skin contact Jim honestly hasn't felt in a while. It's safe to acknowledge that it feels nice, right? Sure. Hey, he's only human, and it's not even a sexual thing it's just - nice. Maybe that gets through to Spock, maybe it doesn't, Jim doesn't fully know how all this shit works he's just gonna - keep focusing on what he's supposed to be focusing on, pushing it all to the back of his mind, filing the thoughts away as quickly as he can.
Jim's delight at Spock finishing the poem is palpable, able to flit between them, brilliantly sizzling points along their skin. His hand fits firmly against Spock's side, palm resting over his heart, fingers splayed on his ribs, thumb brushing back and forth idly. Spock's voice rumbles through his chest, low, deep, lilting on the words with practiced ease. He'd make a fantastic Coriolanus, another wilding musing that Jim files away, plucking a different poem out of his hat. He'd practically memorized that Yale book cover to cover, with how often he'd read it. It had been the one thing he'd insisted on bringing with him offworld and he - well, he'd never replaced it when it was lost.
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
Jim has moved out of memories, and instead projects the words in the present, as if in conversation, performing them more theatrically within his mind. Fondness infuses with it, that teasing spirit the both of them hold so well, their ever-present back and forth. His breath fans across Spock's shoulder, warm and light, brow smoothing from its concentrated furrow as he recalls the stanza.
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O! how shall summer's honey breath hold out, Against the wrackful siege of battering days - !
The rest of it is lost to the chaos of the next moment - the ding of some kind of acceptance, the way the warn churns, force shooting them upward. Jim inhales sharply, his own arm tightening on instinct, eyes flying open as their surroundings shift so rapidly. Spock's hand rests on his arm, securing him in return, but it's not going to do much when the next platform - oh shit.
Their little raft is deposited over the edge of the higher platform, and Jim lands in the dirt with an audible oof. Probably doesn't help that Spock ends up half on top of him (Vulcans were dense, lordie), the wood of their raft flopping indelicately off to the side. Jim pats a hand against Spock's shoulder, coughing up a wheeze before carefully disentangling them. Looks like the sand made it up here, too, gritty and clinging to any patches of dampness it can find as Jim sits up, squinting at their new environment. "Oh ye of little faith! Told ya we could win it, Mr. Spock. How you doing over there?"
The new configuration doesn't make much sense, at a first glance. There's a sheer rockface, with crevices that one might assume to be climbing holds, if not for the fact that they're so poorly spaced. The rest of it is just blank sand, and no doors to walk - or bail - through. Well, Jim thinks to himself with private amusement. At least it's not another high school.
no subject
Spock shifts against him, rising, settling, and Jim draws his legs in, molding himself along the curve of Spock's back. It's almost peaceful, with the gentle rocks of the waves - the kind of skin-on-skin contact Jim honestly hasn't felt in a while. It's safe to acknowledge that it feels nice, right? Sure. Hey, he's only human, and it's not even a sexual thing it's just - nice. Maybe that gets through to Spock, maybe it doesn't, Jim doesn't fully know how all this shit works he's just gonna - keep focusing on what he's supposed to be focusing on, pushing it all to the back of his mind, filing the thoughts away as quickly as he can.
Jim's delight at Spock finishing the poem is palpable, able to flit between them, brilliantly sizzling points along their skin. His hand fits firmly against Spock's side, palm resting over his heart, fingers splayed on his ribs, thumb brushing back and forth idly. Spock's voice rumbles through his chest, low, deep, lilting on the words with practiced ease. He'd make a fantastic Coriolanus, another wilding musing that Jim files away, plucking a different poem out of his hat. He'd practically memorized that Yale book cover to cover, with how often he'd read it. It had been the one thing he'd insisted on bringing with him offworld and he - well, he'd never replaced it when it was lost.
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
Jim has moved out of memories, and instead projects the words in the present, as if in conversation, performing them more theatrically within his mind. Fondness infuses with it, that teasing spirit the both of them hold so well, their ever-present back and forth. His breath fans across Spock's shoulder, warm and light, brow smoothing from its concentrated furrow as he recalls the stanza.
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O! how shall summer's honey breath hold out,
Against the wrackful siege of battering days - !
The rest of it is lost to the chaos of the next moment - the ding of some kind of acceptance, the way the warn churns, force shooting them upward. Jim inhales sharply, his own arm tightening on instinct, eyes flying open as their surroundings shift so rapidly. Spock's hand rests on his arm, securing him in return, but it's not going to do much when the next platform - oh shit.
Their little raft is deposited over the edge of the higher platform, and Jim lands in the dirt with an audible oof. Probably doesn't help that Spock ends up half on top of him (Vulcans were dense, lordie), the wood of their raft flopping indelicately off to the side. Jim pats a hand against Spock's shoulder, coughing up a wheeze before carefully disentangling them. Looks like the sand made it up here, too, gritty and clinging to any patches of dampness it can find as Jim sits up, squinting at their new environment. "Oh ye of little faith! Told ya we could win it, Mr. Spock. How you doing over there?"
The new configuration doesn't make much sense, at a first glance. There's a sheer rockface, with crevices that one might assume to be climbing holds, if not for the fact that they're so poorly spaced. The rest of it is just blank sand, and no doors to walk - or bail - through. Well, Jim thinks to himself with private amusement. At least it's not another high school.