Aren't they, however? For all that they find themselves in such situations, them seem always to find some manner out. It is not a guarantee that they find themselves in one piece or without injury, but they manage. Every time they leave the ship, they always return. Incident and trouble aside, Spock finds himself not without his own private relief each time that Jim is able to make it back. Were it possible to attend all missions with him — well, it is neither here nor there. The reality of their lives dictate more than occasional separation for duty and otherwise.
Still, the bubble of Jim's elation and joy sings against the skin. It curls with the tucking of Jim's knees, the idle brush of Jim's thumb. It is... Gratifying, he thinks, to explore such moments of being without anything else. Without anyone else. It is not something he had often given, not often something that had been given in return to him. No expectations, no declarations of need or want — Jim just is, as Spock just is. And so too, is the mingling concept of easy recitation, mindless musings of lives they have not led and will not lead. Not yet.
But, such things are always prone to disruption. Peace and tranquility cannot exist without first experiencing war and chaos. In this case, the subsequent tumble onto the next floor isn't so much surprising as it is expected. It would be, indeed, that they would not yet escape the tower's confines without something else. And more, it would be that Spock is left to assist in the roll off of him, immediately sitting up to asses Jim for any further injury in the wake of their messy collapse.
It takes a touch longer than expected for Spock to haul himself up in a fashion that should be considered dignified (or, well, not resting back on his elbows), but perhaps the limited grace with which he does so finally can be excused given his solemn teeter-tottering on the edge of severe hypothermia not even ten minutes before. But, it isn't to say that his current state of affairs is without issue either. The absolute fluctuation in temperature is uncomfortable to say the least, but not unbearable. It causes an odd headache to bloom at the base of his skull, but he's quite able to tame it. Well, inasmuch as someone who is similarly battling the sudden loss of contact. Once bereft of any such proximity, the sudden removal of it staggers him just as profoundly as when Jim first laid a hand against him.
He resolutely does not shiver or even deign to sniff, but it is close. Instead, he focuses on establishing a regular pattern of breathing, smoothing the frayed edges of his neutral mask. If anything might prove of some stable place to rest his mind and thoughts against, it is the idea that Jim ought to find himself adjusting to the switch faster than him.
"I am operating near normal parameters," he says, wringing out the generous fabric of his pants. The parched environs about him take a moment to absorb the water he sheds, leaving muddy puddles in the interim. He does not think of the red of blood, the red of different sands. The hair at the back of his neck prickles at the shifting of warm air, the dark of his eyes far brighter and alert than they had been whilst bobbling along in the small oceanic body below them. "Though, more data is needed to determine if your orders played part in clearing both wind and wave, Captain."
An easy callback to this as well. He knows what it is Jim references. He follows his Captain's eyeline, looks upon the poor climbing surface. He calculates possible routes, but... Well, they're more so possible when accounting for Vulcans and their limbs. Spock's attention veers to another crevasse, though the solution that appears is, well, unconventional at best.
He glances back to Jim, wipes from the curve of his own throat the tackiness of drying salt against his skin. He is curious, to see what he too will be determining as he indicates with his chin the moment he catches his eye.
no subject
Still, the bubble of Jim's elation and joy sings against the skin. It curls with the tucking of Jim's knees, the idle brush of Jim's thumb. It is... Gratifying, he thinks, to explore such moments of being without anything else. Without anyone else. It is not something he had often given, not often something that had been given in return to him. No expectations, no declarations of need or want — Jim just is, as Spock just is. And so too, is the mingling concept of easy recitation, mindless musings of lives they have not led and will not lead. Not yet.
But, such things are always prone to disruption. Peace and tranquility cannot exist without first experiencing war and chaos. In this case, the subsequent tumble onto the next floor isn't so much surprising as it is expected. It would be, indeed, that they would not yet escape the tower's confines without something else. And more, it would be that Spock is left to assist in the roll off of him, immediately sitting up to asses Jim for any further injury in the wake of their messy collapse.
It takes a touch longer than expected for Spock to haul himself up in a fashion that should be considered dignified (or, well, not resting back on his elbows), but perhaps the limited grace with which he does so finally can be excused given his solemn teeter-tottering on the edge of severe hypothermia not even ten minutes before. But, it isn't to say that his current state of affairs is without issue either. The absolute fluctuation in temperature is uncomfortable to say the least, but not unbearable. It causes an odd headache to bloom at the base of his skull, but he's quite able to tame it. Well, inasmuch as someone who is similarly battling the sudden loss of contact. Once bereft of any such proximity, the sudden removal of it staggers him just as profoundly as when Jim first laid a hand against him.
He resolutely does not shiver or even deign to sniff, but it is close. Instead, he focuses on establishing a regular pattern of breathing, smoothing the frayed edges of his neutral mask. If anything might prove of some stable place to rest his mind and thoughts against, it is the idea that Jim ought to find himself adjusting to the switch faster than him.
"I am operating near normal parameters," he says, wringing out the generous fabric of his pants. The parched environs about him take a moment to absorb the water he sheds, leaving muddy puddles in the interim. He does not think of the red of blood, the red of different sands. The hair at the back of his neck prickles at the shifting of warm air, the dark of his eyes far brighter and alert than they had been whilst bobbling along in the small oceanic body below them. "Though, more data is needed to determine if your orders played part in clearing both wind and wave, Captain."
An easy callback to this as well. He knows what it is Jim references. He follows his Captain's eyeline, looks upon the poor climbing surface. He calculates possible routes, but... Well, they're more so possible when accounting for Vulcans and their limbs. Spock's attention veers to another crevasse, though the solution that appears is, well, unconventional at best.
He glances back to Jim, wipes from the curve of his own throat the tackiness of drying salt against his skin. He is curious, to see what he too will be determining as he indicates with his chin the moment he catches his eye.