He might do it, he thinks. He could do it, if the situation continued to call for it. His body knows itself, as much as he might know it. He knows what it has before endured, what it might still yet. But, there are times where such qualifiers need not apply. There are times where might becomes must, could becomes would. There are times, like these ones, where Spock gauges correctly no matter the physical cost.
It is that determination and certainty that buoys him forth, that brings him to rest as his side as though an anchor. What hypocrisies he engages in and does not? It does not matter. It is illogical to dwell upon a double-standard when the value of the other party is far more evident than his own. And it is so, despite the look that Jim casts him. It is not distrust, he knows. It is consideration. It is a hope for another alternative, when one may not be present. Still, the defense rises readily to his tongue, the probabilities and percentages available to him as they so often are. They are as accurate as they might be in this scenario. And this scenario?
Unquestionably, he nearly says. There is no conclusion without a first attempt. But, the words are devoured by the rumbling behind them. They are ensnared by the sudden spark of inspiration that flares up in Jim, the frenetic motion of his mind moving them further in. Spock follows, willing to hear the argument. They have time. They have time enough yet.
"Not as such," Spock says, settling as though a shadow would alongside him. He believes he knows what it is Jim may be suggesting, knowing that his love of free climbing, but there are times. There are times, further and further between, that Spock cannot yet discern the conclusion before Jim approaches it. "Though you have waxed on most expansively about such activities before."
He casts a discerning eye over the spaces afforded, the angle and cut of the rock. There are few solutions he might come to, but there is something to be said of making a wedge of forms. If one gains the appropriate traction and balances external force - it is not ideal, given the way his body still burns with the excess stimulus, but it is better than what might be. Could be.
The math works out right.
He arches a brow, raises with it the remnants of his shields. They will hold just enough. He will make them. He takes a breath, meets Jim's eyes. He squares himself internally, mirrors from Jim the sturdiness of his form. The certainty.
"A tribute to your eight-legged Terran mollusk, I presume?"
the penalty of knowing me is high, etc.
It is that determination and certainty that buoys him forth, that brings him to rest as his side as though an anchor. What hypocrisies he engages in and does not? It does not matter. It is illogical to dwell upon a double-standard when the value of the other party is far more evident than his own. And it is so, despite the look that Jim casts him. It is not distrust, he knows. It is consideration. It is a hope for another alternative, when one may not be present. Still, the defense rises readily to his tongue, the probabilities and percentages available to him as they so often are. They are as accurate as they might be in this scenario. And this scenario?
Unquestionably, he nearly says. There is no conclusion without a first attempt. But, the words are devoured by the rumbling behind them. They are ensnared by the sudden spark of inspiration that flares up in Jim, the frenetic motion of his mind moving them further in. Spock follows, willing to hear the argument. They have time. They have time enough yet.
"Not as such," Spock says, settling as though a shadow would alongside him. He believes he knows what it is Jim may be suggesting, knowing that his love of free climbing, but there are times. There are times, further and further between, that Spock cannot yet discern the conclusion before Jim approaches it. "Though you have waxed on most expansively about such activities before."
He casts a discerning eye over the spaces afforded, the angle and cut of the rock. There are few solutions he might come to, but there is something to be said of making a wedge of forms. If one gains the appropriate traction and balances external force - it is not ideal, given the way his body still burns with the excess stimulus, but it is better than what might be. Could be.
The math works out right.
He arches a brow, raises with it the remnants of his shields. They will hold just enough. He will make them. He takes a breath, meets Jim's eyes. He squares himself internally, mirrors from Jim the sturdiness of his form. The certainty.
"A tribute to your eight-legged Terran mollusk, I presume?"
What else might it be?