Jim's not sure luck is the word he would use, with how often they find themselves in some manner of peril. That Spock permits the breach of protocol with regularity is a gift horse Jim has yet to look into the mouth of. They are, of course, at their best when they're together, but that's a plain enough fact to the both of them that it's not necessarily worth voicing.
Spock looks - slightly off-balance, if Jim had to press a definition, though Jim isn't particularly worried by it - not as much as he was before, when Spock was turning green and bordering on stage two hypothermic shock. He does still look half-drowned, bangs a blunt, wet helmet against his forehead, a detail that inspires a flash of humor and fondness despite the circumstances; Jim's sure he doesn't look much better, save the soggy sweatband keeping his hair out of his eyes. He brushes a patch of sand off his arm, though it mostly just moves the grit around, and he dusts his hands together to try to get rid of the remaining grains.
At least it's warm again, and Jim is sitting up and looking at Spock with clear blue eyes instead of beaten to unconsciousness in the sand. The heat is back, a welcome balm to chase away the sunken chill; it would be uncomfortable soon enough, but Jim's reminded of summers spent under the Iowa sun, the shock of jumping into the cool lake, and clamoring back out just to do it all over again. Funny that, as Spock wrings the water out of his pants (Jim is just going to have to suffer with wet shorts that cling to him, ugh) he can almost imagine him by the lakeside. As if Jim could ever convince him on a picnic, ha. Well, maybe if he brought a chess set.
He pushes the thoughts away with a shake of his head, water sluicing from the wet ends of his hair. Jim snorts, raising an eyebrow at Spock and giving up on clearing the sand from his hands - he leans back on his palms, briefly allowing the warmth of the artificial sunlight to suffuse with his skin. "Oh, haven't you heard, Commander? Poseidon himself quivers before me."
Of course he does. Jim's underlying amusement permeates, even as they evaluate the next obstacle course set in front of them. There's no ticking time clock on this one (he doesn't say it aloud, for fear of jinxing it), though the next platform is high enough up that a fall from high enough up would surely break something.
Jim's gaze falls back on Spock, though it is first drawn to the water droplets the Commander wipes away from the hollow of his throat, carving lines down the arc of his neck. Jim blinks, refocuses, and decides to blame it on the lazy heat winding its way into his brain. He holds up a fistful of sand, particulate slowly sifting from his grasp, the whisper of it trailing back down his arm. "At least we have sand."
In the absence of climbing chalk, well, it's better than nothing. Jim sighs quietly to himself and makes to stand, rolling his neck, then stretching an arm behind his head - warming up the muscles probably wasn't a bad idea, again, given the fact that there was no ticking clock. He twists to lock his hands together behind his back, stretching out the tricep - and then it becomes apparent he's spoken too soon.
Another strange tone chimes, the evidence of the next trial beginning, and the platform rumbles beneath them. The light display blinks into relief on the wall, depicting the stick figures climbing; one of them falls while the other reaches the top, and the instructions end. The other portion to this, it would seem, is the loss of several blocks on the edge of the platform - they simply fall away with a ding. Oh, great, this shit is going to systematically erode from underneath them?
"I don't see any outcroppings." Jim's snapping back to fight or flight mode in an instant, evaluating the rockface before them. A simul-climb wouldn't be easy, not with this configuration, and it's not like they have any rope to assist them; as much as Jim would probably enjoy free-soloing recreationally, it leaves something to be desired here. "I don't know how many of those footholds I can reach."
"You may have to go on without me, Spock." Jim turns back to look at him seriously, fixing his hands on his hips. Better that one of them makes it to the top. Besides, Jim would be fine in the water, unless they released sharks (they couldn't do that, right? Right?) Spock would not have the same luxury.
no subject
Spock looks - slightly off-balance, if Jim had to press a definition, though Jim isn't particularly worried by it - not as much as he was before, when Spock was turning green and bordering on stage two hypothermic shock. He does still look half-drowned, bangs a blunt, wet helmet against his forehead, a detail that inspires a flash of humor and fondness despite the circumstances; Jim's sure he doesn't look much better, save the soggy sweatband keeping his hair out of his eyes. He brushes a patch of sand off his arm, though it mostly just moves the grit around, and he dusts his hands together to try to get rid of the remaining grains.
At least it's warm again, and Jim is sitting up and looking at Spock with clear blue eyes instead of beaten to unconsciousness in the sand. The heat is back, a welcome balm to chase away the sunken chill; it would be uncomfortable soon enough, but Jim's reminded of summers spent under the Iowa sun, the shock of jumping into the cool lake, and clamoring back out just to do it all over again. Funny that, as Spock wrings the water out of his pants (Jim is just going to have to suffer with wet shorts that cling to him, ugh) he can almost imagine him by the lakeside. As if Jim could ever convince him on a picnic, ha. Well, maybe if he brought a chess set.
He pushes the thoughts away with a shake of his head, water sluicing from the wet ends of his hair. Jim snorts, raising an eyebrow at Spock and giving up on clearing the sand from his hands - he leans back on his palms, briefly allowing the warmth of the artificial sunlight to suffuse with his skin. "Oh, haven't you heard, Commander? Poseidon himself quivers before me."
Of course he does. Jim's underlying amusement permeates, even as they evaluate the next obstacle course set in front of them. There's no ticking time clock on this one (he doesn't say it aloud, for fear of jinxing it), though the next platform is high enough up that a fall from high enough up would surely break something.
Jim's gaze falls back on Spock, though it is first drawn to the water droplets the Commander wipes away from the hollow of his throat, carving lines down the arc of his neck. Jim blinks, refocuses, and decides to blame it on the lazy heat winding its way into his brain. He holds up a fistful of sand, particulate slowly sifting from his grasp, the whisper of it trailing back down his arm. "At least we have sand."
In the absence of climbing chalk, well, it's better than nothing. Jim sighs quietly to himself and makes to stand, rolling his neck, then stretching an arm behind his head - warming up the muscles probably wasn't a bad idea, again, given the fact that there was no ticking clock. He twists to lock his hands together behind his back, stretching out the tricep - and then it becomes apparent he's spoken too soon.
Another strange tone chimes, the evidence of the next trial beginning, and the platform rumbles beneath them. The light display blinks into relief on the wall, depicting the stick figures climbing; one of them falls while the other reaches the top, and the instructions end. The other portion to this, it would seem, is the loss of several blocks on the edge of the platform - they simply fall away with a ding. Oh, great, this shit is going to systematically erode from underneath them?
"I don't see any outcroppings." Jim's snapping back to fight or flight mode in an instant, evaluating the rockface before them. A simul-climb wouldn't be easy, not with this configuration, and it's not like they have any rope to assist them; as much as Jim would probably enjoy free-soloing recreationally, it leaves something to be desired here. "I don't know how many of those footholds I can reach."
"You may have to go on without me, Spock." Jim turns back to look at him seriously, fixing his hands on his hips. Better that one of them makes it to the top. Besides, Jim would be fine in the water, unless they released sharks (they couldn't do that, right? Right?) Spock would not have the same luxury.