Jim could list a hundred reasons, a thousand, why Spock's survival was necessary, why it was right and the absence of it would be so, so wrong, but in truth, he only needed one. No others would ever surpass the painfully sincere fact at the heart of his obstinacy, pots and kettles be damned: Spock was one of his greatest friends, and Jim could not conceive of a world without him.
More importantly, he would not want to.
Perhaps it's selfish, in the way that caring for someone can be, sometimes - but it's no secret that Spock would outlive all of them, and Jim, admittedly, takes some amount of comfort in knowing that. There's no guarantee, of course, now that his universe is out of sync with the one this Spock hails from - but if there's anything Jim hopes remains a constant, well, his answer should come as no surprise.
"Work smarter, not harder." It's the only idea he's got, and while he's open to suggestions, they'll be pushing it on time soon enough. Spock acquiesces to the idea, which means he's determined it's likely (enough) to succeed - whether it's still post-hypothermic delusion or not, Jim will take the wins where he can get them.
Spock assumes the position behind him, and Jim links their arms together, leaning back to brace them against one another. Where his Spock has an inch on him and Spock has several on his own Captain, the two of them are evenly matched. The burst of color that occurs when their skin touches, back to back, is not as controlled as it was on the raft - Jim doesn't have the mental capacity to recall poetry as he determines the course of action. It is, however, focused - determination hums, tightly bound, under his skin. Adrenaline, the thrill of both physical exertion and a healthy dose of distress - just another day in the Fleet.
"One, two - three - !" Jim braces one foot against the rock, flexing his toes, and pushes up with his other leg on three, pushing back against Spock. It works, insofar as they are indeed suspended between the two cliffs. Jim tilts his head back to look upwards, brushing against Spock's - it looks fairly even all the way up, so hopefully the hypothesis holds true, and the length of both of them combined will be enough to stretch the whole way. "Alright, ready?"
Jim takes a step, core muscles engaged, leveraging his hips a little higher, before waiting for Spock to shift. They'll need to establish a rhythm, a back and forth, as his shoulders shift against Spock's - a push and pull, like a seesaw, the rowing of a boat, sliding into sync as if they're one organism.
This is one task that's never seemed to be an issue for them.
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More importantly, he would not want to.
Perhaps it's selfish, in the way that caring for someone can be, sometimes - but it's no secret that Spock would outlive all of them, and Jim, admittedly, takes some amount of comfort in knowing that. There's no guarantee, of course, now that his universe is out of sync with the one this Spock hails from - but if there's anything Jim hopes remains a constant, well, his answer should come as no surprise.
"Work smarter, not harder." It's the only idea he's got, and while he's open to suggestions, they'll be pushing it on time soon enough. Spock acquiesces to the idea, which means he's determined it's likely (enough) to succeed - whether it's still post-hypothermic delusion or not, Jim will take the wins where he can get them.
Spock assumes the position behind him, and Jim links their arms together, leaning back to brace them against one another. Where his Spock has an inch on him and Spock has several on his own Captain, the two of them are evenly matched. The burst of color that occurs when their skin touches, back to back, is not as controlled as it was on the raft - Jim doesn't have the mental capacity to recall poetry as he determines the course of action. It is, however, focused - determination hums, tightly bound, under his skin. Adrenaline, the thrill of both physical exertion and a healthy dose of distress - just another day in the Fleet.
"One, two - three - !" Jim braces one foot against the rock, flexing his toes, and pushes up with his other leg on three, pushing back against Spock. It works, insofar as they are indeed suspended between the two cliffs. Jim tilts his head back to look upwards, brushing against Spock's - it looks fairly even all the way up, so hopefully the hypothesis holds true, and the length of both of them combined will be enough to stretch the whole way. "Alright, ready?"
Jim takes a step, core muscles engaged, leveraging his hips a little higher, before waiting for Spock to shift. They'll need to establish a rhythm, a back and forth, as his shoulders shift against Spock's - a push and pull, like a seesaw, the rowing of a boat, sliding into sync as if they're one organism.
This is one task that's never seemed to be an issue for them.