The last challenge was a doozy, leaving him feeling drained, but Jim dutifully climbs up the endless stairs to his next task. He’s made it this far, with three green icons to his name - it would be a shame to quit now, before he even knows what the final challenge is. He’s got to be getting close to the top of this tower, right? Maybe whatever’s at the end of it will help them in their ongoing quest to figure out what the hell is wrong with this place - no, Jim’s no quitter. Besides, anything’s got to be easier than baring secrets to a stranger, right?
The last door awaits him, lighting up yellow with the corresponding symbol on his tablet, but this time - there’s a small table waiting for him in the hallway. Huh. That’s…new. Jim sets the tablet down in the basket as the sign on the wall indicates, retrieving the small pile of fabric in its place. When he unfolds it, it’s -
“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”
It’s a pair of red booty shorts, like he’s an extra in Grease 12, that old musical they’d always show at the picturama back in Iowa - for the family friendly screening he’d sneak into with Sam, before they stuck around for the age-inappropriate creature feature afterwards. Jim squints at it for a second, and the sign that reads: Place all of your belongings in the basket; take with you only the uniform.
“What kind of a uniform is this?” Jim wonders aloud, looking around for some kind of camera in the hallway, to whomever is watching and judging the completion of the challenges - but there’s nothing, so he sighs, and starts to pull off his shirt.
Like he said, he’s no quitter.
There’s a matching sweatband he uncovers, so he dons that as well, trying not to feel utterly ridiculous. When he goes to try the door, though, it’s stuck, refusing to open.
His tablet pings in the basket, lighting up with the repeated instructions: Place all of your belongings in the basket; take with you only the uniform.
“What…aw, seriously?” Jim looks down at himself, trying to figure out where he went wrong, but there’s only one thing it could be.
The uniform didn’t come with underwear.
Once Jim divests himself of his boxer briefs, the lock on the door clicks open, allowing him into the room. The first thing he notices is that it’s hot, light from an indiscernible source bearing down on the bottom of the room - well, he’s grateful for the sweatband, at least, he has a feeling he’s going to need it. The second thing Jim notices is the sand, red and gritty beneath his bare feet. There’s nothing else there, for the moment, but Jim’s betting - some kind of physical challenge, with his state of (un)dress? That’s Jim’s best guess, shirtless and starting to perspire - but given that he doesn’t have his tablet anymore, he’s reliant on whomever his partner is for the challenge instructions.
He'd rather not, he thinks. But, the signage had been explicit. The basket sits on the table and Spock stares it, moves about it once, and determines there are no mechanisms at the bottom that would "snitch," as Humans call it. Moreover, "unnecessary" had variable definitions.
So, he tests the theory and deposits his tablet and, after reaching down to unzip them, his regulation boots. He waits.
That is not "all items," sir.
Spock's mouth tugs at one corner. It is not downward, but it is not upward either. He considers adding items in tiered levels of importance, but then the tablet lights up again: Necessary, in this case, is all clothing and outside items, sir.
There may be what qualifies as a frown upon his face now, but there are no witnesses to verify it. It is not what he would term ideal for a challenge, but Spock has no particular compunctions about changing in the supplied space once he performs a cursory examination of the items available for wear and determines the relative privacy of the room. He is accustomed to sharing space aboard the Enterprise, familiar with communal showering systems, but he has reasonable doubts (within a 6.2% chance of error) that most have been desensitized to standard nonsexual nudity.
That's all to say: he complies with the instructions (now that he's been cornered) and slips on the assigned attire. It is not wholly dissimilar to the loose pants worn during the practice of Suus Mahna. But - there is no shirt or tunic to accompany it. Spock does not sigh, precisely, but he does let out a long breath.
He'd been reasonably cautious about the structure, but the risks fall shy of the potential benefits. He knows he is playing their game, but Jim had plowed on ahead. One of them had a high enough chance of winning and thus could leave and disseminate the information to the other, but it did not mean that Spock found any gratification in supplying the "challenge" any further data upon them.
But, all aside: the ambient temperature of the room is entirely unsuited to Vulcans for extended periods. Predictable, but it is bearable enough for the moment. If he moves through the motions of depositing other items into the supplied basket a touch more efficiently? Well, no one is about to call him on it. And so, after briefly smoothing over his supplied pants, Spock suppresses the instinctual urge to shiver as he reaches over to tab open the door.
What hits him first is the scent. Human sweat. Warmth. The harsh angle of artificial sun. Sand. The grit of it is pronounced under the naked soles of his feet as he crosses the threshold and Spock tamps down on the visceral shame that lurches up from his chest, hungry and viscous. He imagines himself seizing it, unspooling the stubborn strands from the fine muscle and tissue it anchors into. He visualizes further, as the individual he happens upon as the doors slam shut behind them crystallizes.
"Captain," Spock says. His voice is calmer than his pulse would suggest, pilomotor reflex kicking in despite the temperature of the room being best suited to him. He has seen Jim in less... Modest attire, but it appears this environment is a rather pointed jab. He clears his throat, glances toward the opposite wall. He thinks of vasodilation, wills himself back along the lines of constriction.
His ears are hot.
And so too is the shame that continues to reign.
the voicemail box you have reached has not been set up yet ;3
The door on the opposite side of the room opens, and Jim raises a hand to block the light from above, having been caught squinting up at it. There's no mistaking the figure that enters, when his vision clears of the spots Jim had induced in it, and the smile that stretches over his face is instinct. "Spock!"
Jim knows they both strategically agreed to the pop-up on their tablets, upping their chances of making it through whatever challenge had been devised in the hopes of learning more about Aldrip and the powers that be - but when Jim had awoken, alone on the bottom floor, Spock was nowhere to be seen. He hadn't seen heads or tails of him throughout his journey up the tower; while it wasn't unexpected, necessarily, Jim wouldn't deny he was glad to see him now. Hopefully this was one of the challenges they'd be able to complete together - if Spock was here now, he must have garnered his other wins, right? Either way, at least one of them would make it to the top.
Jim lightly jogs across the open space, towards the middle, to meet Spock halfway. He gets there and stops, hands on his hips, feet buried in the warm sand - which feels kind of nice, actually, though he's definitely going to need to hydrate afterwards. The temperature of this room has clearly been calibrated to Spock-levels; there's sweat gathering on Jim's neck, droplets of moisture starting to collect and roll down his shoulders. "Man, am I glad to see you. We made it, at least."
He'd offer a high-five, but he knows his audience.
Spock is also half-naked, though with a bit more in the pants department. Jim fakes a huff, gesturing to his companion and decidedly not looking at Spock's broad chest, what with the very aesthetically-pleasing dusting of dark hair that resides there. What? Jim's only human, and a red-blooded Terran male at that. Hey! He said he's not looking. "Oh, so you get the cutoffs and I look like I should be holding pom-poms? Typical."
But given that he's not looking at Spock's nakedness, he is looking at his face, and Jim's own expression starts to pull into a bit of a worried frown. He's proven he knows Spock's not-expressions by now, and this one is...tense. For no reason that Jim can detect, anyway - it's clear Jim has no idea that the situation, the sand, has any kind of deeper meaning. "Are you okay? Looking a little green around the gills. Run into any trouble getting up here?"
Jim wouldn't be surprised, given his own circumstances, but it's not something he thinks either one of them will want to discuss.
Undoubtedly, Spock would have raised an eyebrow at the attempt. On another day, he supposes that Jim would have received what he called "a kick out of it." It would have been neatly laughed away, tucked up against their usual way of banter — their perpetual give and take. Jim had once described the fashion in which he'd "pulled pigtails," but they had never commented further on the accidental revelation that had been tossed into the fray. Their connection was an easy one. They knew where the line lay, but privately, Spock had begun to wonder.
As always, he saves it "for another day."
"I am acceptable, thank you." His expression is still and silent, a neutral mask. There is little that gives way to anything within it, but Jim has always been able to find the remnants of emotion somewhere. No matter how Spock had attempted to disguise or evade, Jim had made any such efforts child's play. Once, it had deeply troubled him. Now? In these circumstances, it causes a sort of disquiet. For all that Jim remains Jim across any cosmic divide, there are things this Jim has not yet experienced. There are things, undoubtedly, that that Spock has never explained. If he is fortunate, he will be free of it for many years yet. But — "The fluctuations in ambient temperature likely contributed to an unusual degree of vasodilatation."
But, the shame still lingers. It flickers in the dark of his eyes, the way he folds his arms loosely across his bare chest. His skin feels at once numb and over-sensitized. A peculiar sensation, were he to examine it, but wholly unpleasant. He turns his head toward Jim, the blunt cut of his bangs ruffled from the earlier change of attire. He'd had no time to fix it, regrettably distracted by the environment as he was. "I am also gratified to see you, though more so to see you've made it through whole."
Tamping down on what emotional lapses linger, he focuses his attention on Jim's face. He can feel the vague curiosity that possesses Jim, knows Humans have a more difficult time restricting it, but he makes no comment. Instead, his eyes search him. Upon cursory examination, he appears wholly uninjured, but there is more to harm than physical expression. Jim appears already at odds with the environment, perspiring as he is, but that is the worst of what he gathers. At least, for the moment.
As Spock goes to further elucidate on his status and inquire after Jim's, the far wall illuminates. Upon it, there is the representation of two individuals (stick figures?) and a set of instructions(?): Ride or die! A minimalistic representation of a wave skims across the individuals, showing them bobbing along above the surface. As time goes on and a seeming current starts to kick in, one fails to keep adrift. A check mark appears next to the remaining, signifying a "win."
"Ji—" Spock starts, but that's about as far as he gets.
Something's off here, but Jim's in no position to press the issue. It could be any number of things, and now is definitely not the time to get into it - but what's happened in the intervening hours between when Jim last saw his friend, and now? He's assuming that's the root of the issue, because what else could it be? Jim's eyes tighten, his own expression not so neutral - he can tell when Spock is feeding him a load of crock, and fluctuations in ambient temperature is surely a line.
Spock is uncomfortable. That much is evident, despite all the Vulcan liked to pretend he was "perfectly adequate", or some such combination of synonyms. It's even more bewildering, given the fact that this room is closer to his usual temperature preferences. Jim tilts his head to the side, assessing, meeting Spock's deep, dark gaze with his own sharp blue. "I've been worse."
And from what he's heard, this whole situation could have been a lot worse. At least one of them will make it to the top now, hopefully both - and hopefully whatever is happening in this room won't be too rough on either of them. Jim's already spilled a wealth of secrets at Spock's feet - what can be worse than that?
He should know better than to even think a challenge like that.
Jim opens his mouth, perhaps to call Spock's bullshit out - but the indicator on the wall interrupts him, brightening with their LED instructions. It doesn't look promising - a physical challenge this time, it seems like - and Jim barely has time to cut his gaze back over to Spock when the animation ends before he feels the floor begin to shift.
Right under his feet, because he's the dumbass standing directly in the middle of the room.
"Woah!" Jim skitters back a step, onto Spock's side of the crevasse opening in the floor - the sand is disappearing into it, or quickly being washed away by the water that bubbles forth. He nearly slips and falls as the water rises beneath his heel, hissing in surprise at how icy cold it is - a stark contrast to the heat from above, almost painful in the dissonance. Jim's more than sure it'll suck more in a minute or two - the water is rising swiftly, already starting to lap at his calves.
"Okay, we can - " But whatever he's going to say is lost to further cracking along the walls, more water rushing in from high points above them. They weren't kidding about the current that was already starting to make itself apparent, rushing forces from all sides creating a pull in the water. "...how long can you tread water?"
As with many of their recent discoveries, it appears that comfort is not the priority for either of them. The room turns from one man's idea of Hell to the next, the red of the sands pulling vees around the backs of their legs like a tide that's decided to just roll in. It'd be an ideal sensation to experience on leave at any temperate ocean, but this challenge embodies neither.
And Spock isn't thinking, before he's immediately closing the gap between them just enough to seize Jim's forearm with one, pale hand. He's pulling him, knowing Jim will soon realize why it is he's doing this, his mouth flattening into a thin line as he runs through possibilities. There aren't many. But, the few that are available? Certainly worth the attempt.
"I have never attempted to exceed the Starfleet standard," Spock tells him, adjusting his grip. That isn't the most relevant bit of information, however. He knows that. He knows too that Jim will insist on assisting, but the challenge is only a challenge. If he loses, it means little to him. And more so, if it means only his own failure? Acceptable, he thinks.
"Captain, only one of us has to lose," he continues, pitching his voice above the roar of the water. He picks his way across the riptides rapidly forming about the middle of the room, dragging Jim alongside him. His grip is firm, just this side of bruising, but his bone density serves to anchor them both anyway. Against the rising tide and the sharp increase in erosion, Spock knows their chance to survive the challenge lies within the bounds of two point three standard minutes. By then, the current will sweep them both off their feet regardless of its relative shallowness.
Still, he knows better than to keep to corners and the direct center. He tracks the progression of fissures and stations them firmly in the singular location that appears safest. The current should pull in one direction once settled, thus cutting horizontal— he turns to face Jim, dark gaze piercing.
"The odds of my keeping afloat longer than you is approximately one thousand two hundred and thirteen point seven percent to one." There's a stubborn set to his jaw as he says it, a kind of perfect calm. "It is therefore logical—"
Whatever the argument, it quickly becomes moot. Water rushes in faster, fiercer. Spock can't suppress the chatter of his own teeth, the way his hand flexes about Jim's arm. There's no point in recalculating the odds as the LED lights at the far wall flicker and dim. The wall is bowing in. And then—
The water surges, impossible and heavy, up and over their heads.
Spock grabs his arm, and the burst surprise from Jim likely flows through both of them. He can't focus on it for too long, though, quick to catch up to where Spock is leading them, more water rushing in, quickly eroding the ground beneath them. Jim's got a knack for survival, sure, but Spock is clearly several calculations ahead of him, and sometimes it's wise to let him do his thing, and wait for human intuition to kick in.
"So we've got four minutes," Jim translates, determination settling in over his shoulders. Spock is still holding onto his arm, keeping him in place, which while it's a boon now - it'll definitely be an issue as the water rises. And it is an issue, though it's becoming perfectly apparent that Spock doesn't seem to think it one. Jim's exasperation, if it weren't already understood via touch telepathy, is easily translated in his expression. "Commander, that's quitter talk. These challenges can have two winners, and we're going for the gold."
They stop in Spock's chosen location, the water easily hitting their knees now, the current already pulling strongly at them. It's only going to be worse as it gets higher, and when Spock turns to him, Jim grasps his forearm securely in return. "To hell with your odds, Spock! We're not going to - "
The interruption is abrupt and cold. So very cold, dousing them both - if gooseflesh is rising on Jim's previously heat-kissed skin, he knows it's on Spock's, too. And quite seriously, aside from the fact that Jim doesn't believe in no win scenarios, he's not letting Spock succumb to freezing cold water. It'll hurt his Vulcan companion a lot more than it'll hurt him, so if anyone is giving up, it's him, and also no one is giving up. Sacrifice plays come last, not first, and Jim's sticking to it.
The water swallows them whole, and for a second Jim's vision is clouded, his whole body submerged in buffeting water. His hand clenches down tighter on Spock's forearm - the current is trying to rip them apart, but Jim slides his arm up, hooking their elbows together. He flutter kicks upwards, hauling with all his strength - he's sure Spock is also kicking, or he hopes he is, and not simply waiting to sink to the bottom like the obstinate bastard he is.
Jim's head finally breaks above water, right as his lungs begin to burn, and he coughs, sucking in warm air. It would be funny, the way the wave has waterlogged the stupid sweatband on his head, but his hands find Spock's chest, trying to make sure he follows him to breaking above the water.
Instinct holds no cards to the chest, but neither does Jim in this domain. For all that Spock knows him to be bright and affable and painfully brilliant, he knows him too as this: insufferable, impossible, and obstinate in ways that rival any Vulcan under their moonless sun. He knows it the second the water sweeps above their head. Jim will entertain no debate (no matter how logical and sound) and the surety of his conviction cleaves through him with more ache than the icy current that threatens to unmoor them.
"I had not meant securing victory by drowning, Captain." The retort is dry, sharp off the tongue, but the irritation Jim feels seems to have dampened the heat of his own. It is hard to keep himself afloat, harder still to keep them both above the settling waves, but he's already been told off once before for his predilections. Self-sacrifice, Jim had claimed, as if he were not guilty of the same. Spock sniffs, shakes his hair out of his eyes, and tries not to think of the way Jim's nails dig into his skin.
Spock knows they may leave at any time. The stakes are lower here. He has a theory that he may be able to fool the presumed computer— but, Jim won't let him. He can feel the steady thrum of his conviction, the absolute certainty that they might get through the process together, and Spock knows he'll refuse to budge as much as Spock wants to argue it. He knows if he were attempt to sink now, he'd take Jim with him. He knows, somewhere deep in the unexamined parts of himself, that Jim would rather take the risk than risk him.
Spock knows he is the same.
But, for all he doesn't realize it, his brow knits. The furrow that always tells tells and if one can manage to convey the reluctance to keep themselves above water to better the odds for the other? Spock does a bang up job of it. This trait, like Jim's heels digging in at the slightest provocation in this arena, is a constant. No matter how many times Spock cites logic, disguises his pleas as reason, Jim will uncover the raw core of it. Even when he obfuscates the truth, Jim knows. He finds its ugly edges, turns it over his palms. Held up to the light of the day, Spock once tried to convince himself he loathed it.
But now? He finds himself seeking other ways.
"I advise seeking suitable debris," he says, pushing the suggestion along more through touch than by the timbre of his own voice. The water still moves about them, attempting to discover the boundaries of its new confines, but the depth has stabilized. At least, for the moment.
Spock doubts it will remain the case.
He has another three point six minutes to tread water before the weight of him own anatomy dooms them both, but fewer if one counts the onset of potential hypothermia. Spock will fall to it far quicker than Jim, but there is no need for them both to suffer it. Already, he begins to feel the paradoxical warmth settling into his extremities despite the dark, pine-like flush that settles along the tips of his ears, the high points of his face. Forcing it back will require more mental concentration than he might afford without the implicit barrier he keeps between them and so he cycles it before he might pinpoint anything of significant. Or, perhaps, anything with meaning without further scrutiny.
As they bob, Spock scans behind the curve of Jim's shoulder, notes the periphery. If there is debris left to salvage for any sort of floatation, it has yet to surface. However, considering the masses that brush unseen against their tangled legs?
"Wouldn't put it past you," It's a dark mutter that Spock can no doubt hear, though it has less to do with his enhanced hearing and more to do with the fact that it comes out in a puff of warm breath against the shell of Spock's ear. Yet he is correct - Jim is just as bull-headed as the best of them when he gets it in his mind to be so; especially when his human penchant for emotionalism overrides all else. It's no surprise this challenge inspires it - temporary though the consequences may be, low stakes be damned - Jim's not letting go.
He can't. It's not in his nature, and maybe it is hypocritical - but humans were funny that way. This one especially, and especially in regards to those he cares about or those he regards as under his care (which makes the whole criminal negligence thing even more fucking bizarre). Spock's managed to get himself on both lists, regardless of whichever Captain Kirk he's supposed to be serving, so it's a losing battle - there is no debate to be had.
Not that it stops Spock from trying, most of the time.
"I concur, Mr. Spock," Jim puffs; keeping his own head above water is already a challenge with the way the conflicting currents keep pulling at them. In its own way, it kind of feels nice to move his body, though it surely won't for long, I should have been doing more stretches with how much desk work we've been doing-
There's no stopping the errant thoughts that are sure to break through, and Jim doesn't have a prayer in trying, but they have more pressing matters to attend to. Spock's already turning green, so that's what a blush would look like, huh? and that's definitely not a good sign, regardless of their sink or swim problem.
Jim readjusts his grip on Spock, moving around to cling to his side with his dominant hand, wrapping it under his arm in a lifeguard carry. The moment Spock can't tread anymore, the moment he becomes a lead balloon, Jim will need all the strength he can get to lift him. Whether or not it will make a difference remains to be seen, but they have to try. Jim won't accept anything less.
"Ow, shit!" Something hits him in the calf, a zing of aching pain that travels up his leg, and then it tumbles and catches him on his heel, beneath the water. "What the - "
As if Spock's summoned it, pieces of unrecognizable debris begin to surface. Driftwood, a barrel, a glob of kelp that bobs and swirls with the current. Jim eyes it for a second, wondering if any of it will be helpful in holding Spock's weight. Jim, he can float - it'll be a pain in the ass, probably get him knocked around six ways to Sunday, but he can float - but Spock needs something bigger.
"Hold on, there's something by my foot." Jim tries to kick at it again to reach whatever it was that had smacked him before, but it only barely grazes his toes as the water drags them around. He takes two seconds to debate how much Spock will object to his next course of action, and then doesn't wait around for an answer. "Give me a second here."
Jim takes a deep breath, and plunges beneath the water.
His hand slides down, keeping him anchored to Spock's leg as he searches below them in the darkness, current swirling, trying to break them apart. No dice, though, because Jim is stickier than a hog at the honey fair (Bones' incredibly confusing words, not his), and he finally manages to find the thing with his free hand, the other curled around Spock's calf like a lifeline. Whatever it is rises up rapidly, clipping Jim in the arm and narrowly missing his face - he surfaces again with a gasp of air, bobbing in the water.
If Spock were Human, he would be rolling his eyes right about now. But, as he is not, Jim needn’t worry about the overt show of emotionalism and self-inflicted disdain at the concept that Jim wouldn’t put it past him. He’s right, of course. But, it is that absolute surety that he is correct that rubs the metaphorical sodium chloride crystals into the metaphorical open abrasion. He had never quite grasped that idiom with both hands until his mother had demonstrated the impact it had upon minor maxillofacial injuries. It’d stung to have it applied, but it did increase the rate of healing a considerable degree without immediate access to a dermal regenerator. He notes, albeit absently, that his inability to calculate the exact rate of acceleration should be cause for concern, but he’s more focused on keeping them both afloat and without moderate psionic interference. It is a task that is made more difficult as Jim seems to see it fit to grumble his complaints nearest his ear and make ample use of his body as a frame with which to hoist himself around.
Spock takes a steadying breath, the effort seemingly monumental as the heart in his side skips a beat or five. He reminds himself firmly to keep Jim tucked against him, his hands locked about whatever limb or curve that Jim affords him access to as he continues to shift. Spock knows, logically, such a position he works himself into is provides more support to him, but the fluttering thoughts and curiosities that sweep across his skin are as distracting as they are perplexing. Why should Jim wonder now about the color of his flush in response to any vein of external stimuli? It is not nearly as appealing, he would think, as the pinkening of Humans. The aesthetic quality mirrors the warmth of a Terran dawn and Spock finds it fascinating that some are driven so easily to when experiencing a surge of emotion— No, he needs to focus. Spock cycles back to fortifying his mental shields, tamps down on the reflexive urge to shiver as Jim’s voice is more felt than heard as he tries to dissuade him.
“I am reasonably convinced—”
And then, Jim’s mind is working. He doesn’t have time to lodge a formal protestation to Jim’s determination, much less the way he decides the best course of action is to use his leg as a lifeline when he dips beneath the murky waves. Spock decides it is no longer relevant the moment Jim resurfaces, his ability to tread thankfully enough to keep them both afloat until the debris rises, almost catching Spock under the chin as it launches itself upward. Near as Spock can tell once the object settles is that it is a rather sizable… Chunk of a ship’s deck. Large enough to hold them both surely, which Spock doesn’t even consider until he’s certain that he’d been able to tug Jim over and closer and with him to avoid any further damage with a clipped Jim!.
Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately for Jim –, any sort of reasonable frustration is discarded in favor of concern. He knows that Jim has nicked himself, can smell the copper tang of Human blood in the water about them, and portions out enough strength to haul Jim up and onto the makeshift flotation device first. He’ll follow once Jim’s stabilized, but he’s going to have take a minute if he’s going to do it himself. In the meantime, he can grip the side and battle out the burn in his lungs. Now that he has something to hold onto that won’t insist on drowning with him, so long as Jim quits fighting him—honestly. He shakes his head, clears his vision again. Water sluices down his face, the chill of it less registered than the growing ache in his extremities.
Regardless of whether or not Spock indulges in a physical expression, Jim can practically feel it, all the same. The Vulcan was not nearly as subtle as he liked to think he was - certainly not to Jim, though he knows he's in the minority on that one. Still, he knows exactly how Spock gets when he's being pissy about a situation where he thinks he's right - and moreover, they've had this exact conversation before. It would be comical, if it didn't make Jim want to smack his head against the wall - which, incidentally, is what having this conversation again felt like.
But he digresses: their clock is ticking, and at least Spock has the good sense not to get into it now. Jim is sure they'll have plenty of time later - he'll kill Spock himself if they don't.
But hey, if it ain't broke? They don't have a lot of options here, and Jim has absolutely no problem shelving propriety in the face of extenuating circumstances (his dignity was always the first thing to go, it seemed). This Jim, in particular - he has no idea how the other Captain would handle the situation, but this one would much rather ask forgiveness than risk his crew. He'd take that trade any day, in a heartbeat, no questions asked. Jim's reasonably sure Spock's got about thirty million complaints to lodge, but they can wait for the after-action report. I bet he'd write one just for the hell of it -
Jim's a little disoriented when he surfaces, barely keeping the wherewithal to be able to kick his legs to aid in letting Spock pull him towards the debris. He's bleeding, but he doesn't feel it until Spock unceremoniously shoves him up, out of the water, and onto the chunk of wooden something-or-other. Jim's able to catch his breath just in time to fire off a string of curse words that would probably give the universal translator a lengthy pause, if they had one around.
"Sp-ock." Jim coughs, and he re-orients himself on the piece of deck, hovering a hand over Spock's wrist, completely ignoring the streaming cut on his arm, which dilutes as it mixes with the water dripping down his body. He doesn't touch him, but Jim's clearly ready to grab onto him the second it looks like Spock's in danger of losing his grip on the debris. "I can float, you stubborn - get up here! You're going to freeze!"
Greener than an Orion in the month of May, the Bones that keeps a running commentary in the back of Jim's brain helpfully adds. He doesn't exactly have anything to wrap his hands with to stop this being awkward, but he offers them anyway, should Spock choose to accept his help in getting up on the debris. He's definitely not going to take a non-attempt for an answer, not with how obviously Spock is suffering in the chilly water.
He wishes the flattened, water-logged bangs could be funnier, but Jim's in no laughing mood, with how the blotchy, green flush has taken over. They'd had one away mission where they'd been caught in an ice storm, and Jim knows it's no joke, how quickly Vulcans can succumb to low temperatures - cold and wet wasn't a good mix.
I would invite you to try, Spock thinks in perfect pitch to the threat that blooms over Jim's skin in the form of gooseflesh and iron. Red, like the sands of Vulcan. Red, like Human blood. All the irritation and belligerence of a Terran cat getting tossed into an ice bath — it blisters all along the orderly constructs that make up Spock's mental landscape. It pours over and forth, determination to protect where Jim won't.
Jim had always placed himself last and expected Spock not to act in mirror of it. It had been something that had vexed him at the beginning of their acquaintance, troubled him toward the middle of it. Now? His protestations underscore his actions. His is an obstinacy that mirrors the fiercest of Kirk-like tantrums, because who else should look after their Captain? Who else, if Jim would refuse to do it himself?
Spock's faculties are starting to failing him, which he finds a certain degree less concern for than he ought. Moderate degrees of hypothermia then, Spock concludes distantly. His legs still tread the swirling depths of the artificial tides, but the pattern is beginning to get sloppy. He focuses on the hand that Jim extends and thinks it won't do any further harm now to grasp it. He'd done it before. He'd done it many times since. He blinks.
He focuses on the stubborn clench of Jim's jaw. He thinks, if he is able to hoist himself up, he might help stem the bleeding. The bleeding, Spock knows, is not his own. And yet —
"Momentarily, Captain," he manages, finally. The syllables slur against the break of his teeth, come strange and heavy off the tongue. He grasps at the debris and wonders again and... Rather ungracefully hauls himself up with the loosest grip he might manage upon Jim's wrist. He can feel the harsh cycling of worryconcernworry and knows it to be pushed back and fed with his own, but Jim needn't. Not about him. Not when he is — and then he's up, spread across the slats, breathing shallowly.
He's not shivering. Water roars about their makeshift raft, drips from the dark of his hair. His hand hasn't yet released Jim, but his fingers are loose enough to escape without considerable effort. He tastes the blood this close, the scent thick in his mouth as he manages up and onto his elbows. He can see Jim more as a golden inconsistency as he sits upright, the debris sinking and then stabilizing beneath its new weight distribution.
"You are bleeding," he says, as though this is new information. He blinks, slow and cat-like. And then — he's tearing a strip of fabric from the bottom of his pants. He doesn't even remember how he got it into his hands in the next moment, but it hardly matters. He leans forward slightly, mouth a thin, pale line. "Allow me."
They really were a pair, weren’t they? Round and round they go. Jim knows all too well how Spock likes to dress up his decisions in logic, but it’s not logical, is it? Not when the facts are that Jim can last longer in the water, bloody trickle on his arm or not. If it is logic (allegedly), Jim remains unconvinced.
He resigns himself to the ensuing debate later, setting it aside for now in favor of focusing wholly on the task at hand. This Spock - sometimes, Jim is guilty of forgetting that he’s not the same as his own, in certain respects, and this self-sacrificial streak making itself known is concerningly familiar. That it’s directed at Jim so specifically is not surprising, if predictably frustrating - and that’s not to mention the infuriating fondness that bubbles in the background of his mind, despite himself. Stubborn bastard. He’d be ever more annoyed if it weren’t so kind.
Jim wasn’t used to having someone look out for him, before Starfleet. Before the Enterprise, really, and her dynamic crew. And Spock - somehow, the Vulcan rivaled only Bones in determination on his behalf. If only he would accept the same in return when it mattered.
Spock’s reaction is worryingly slow on the uptake, and Jim’s brow knots in the middle in concern. Where Spock’s grip is loose, Jim grasps back tightly, unyielding; if Spock’s not making it up onto the debris too, then back in the water Jim commits to tumble. But he does make it, even if the whirl of limbs is more uncoordinated than not (as if that’s not worrying, that their four minute estimate is closer to two and a half, taking into account the effects of the water temperature). Spock splays out on the wood, water surging and then settling around them - Jim only spares one look to confirm they’re not too heavy for floatation before his gaze is drawn back to Spock, anxiety shining in his eyes.
The emotion does not bleed to his actions, however; Jim’s fingers wrap around Spock’s bicep, helping him to the upright position. He’s cold to the touch and not shivering, which is not a good sign, moving into stage two? Or is he past that headed for stage three - if he passes out I swear to God -
“I’m fine,” Jim says on autopilot, though it seems Spock isn’t stopping to ascertain the veracity of his claim. Spock rips the soaked fabric like it’s paper, which, alright, at least he wasn’t headed for stage three, but he still seems pretty out of it - “Spock, for fuck’s sake - ”
Jim huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, sending water every which way from the dripping ends of his hair. It’s all he can do; at least they’re both out of the water now. It’s just a scratch, it doesn’t even hurt - he’s so cold, heat won’t dry us out fast enough, might get tipped into the water again who knows -
Jim’s hand moves down, resting against Spock’s side, the steady thrumming of his heart. It’s a relief to feel it just as much as it is a practical move - Jim starts rubbing his palm over the area, creating as much friction as he can manage without being rough. Chest, neck, head, groin - pretty sure they mean heart and lungs, get circulation going -
“Here, you pertinacious bat. Ah, yes, big word from Jimbo here, bet you didn’t expect that one, eh?” He’s chattering, but it’s fine, because Jim turns obligingly, offering his cut arm to Spock. See? He can accept help; maybe it’ll set a decent precedent. Maybe.
“Bats are not native to Vulcan,” Spock mumbles, more for the way his mouth seems ill-equipped to cooperate with him. Jim’s hands are righting him, steadying him, the heady press of feelingthoughtfeeling another cacophony in the jumble of his current frame of mind. He feels the spray of droplets as Jim shakes out his hair, sees the healthier flush his body carries, but knows the propensity to talk at such a clip does not bode well. And so, Spock tries. He tries to recognize the full of what Jim is getting at, rearranging his words into an understandable pattern.
He opens his mouth again, tries for words as he settles more readily on the debris with Jim’s assistance.
"No," Spock says, his fingers still and firm as levies Jim's arm up into a stabler position. "When possible, you prefer to speak plainly.” It makes you accessible to the crew, relatable to the many. It pours through the spaces between them, each unfiltered pass of a hand. Spock knows he cannot maintain his shields whilst aiding in the progress of warming, but he attempts. He attempts, more for the sake of Jim’s own comfort than his own. When he was young, it had been difficult to align each piece of himself, to know which path he should walk. Caught between feeling and not, order and chaos, absolutes and uncertainties – he’d struggled to view the world that spun and twist before him. When finally given ground, he’d soon lost it. When finally committing to logical tenets, he’d soon lost the grasp of it. Sectioned, reordered, time out of time – it had taken much to build again. And yet, he did. He did, again. That anyone but himself should be expected to withstand what lays between? He can’t.
No matter how much they reach and no matter how much they give, the cycle begins again. Around and around they go, never taking no matter how much they might. Never taking, Spock thinks, how much Jim should. And so, as he winds the fabric about Jim’s arm with singular focus, he tries. He keeps out as much as he can, suffuses the burgeoning temptation of Jim’s pacing thoughts to abstract. What he gains is only surface, but the glimmer of fondness – it echoes. It resounds, fed through the heat of Jim’s palm. Up against his side, he knows the desire to stabilize. To revitalize. No matter how Jim seems to fair, his focus is…
Mister Spock, you are a stubborn man.
The water laps at the edges of their little raft. Spock remembers what he’s meant to be doing and sets to tying off the bandage, hand gentling over the knot he provides to keep it positioned. When he drops his hand, he pulls it back to his lap with the other. Knotted tight about themselves, he holds what little warmth he still has as though a flame against the winds of Vulcan’s open deserts. The feedback he receives now is duller, but it is no less potent.
“However,” Spock starts again and eventually, his voice a lower rasp. He blinks the remaining water from his eyes, rubbing the tips of his own fingers together in mirror of Jim’s insistent palm. “I've known you always to be fond of Human classics. You've read..."
Spock pauses. The heat of Jim’s skin burns as a brand against his skin, distracting for all it has purpose. His heart hums in stuttered steps against his side, as though one who leans over the safety of a parapet. He knows not where the bottom lies, but the lack of knowledge stirs in him both something welcome and lurid.
"I seem to have forgotten the precise number." Not an answer one might want to hear, but Spock knows that he knows it. It will come back to him. It will come back to him, as readily as his own control. He catches himself in the midst of leaning into a firmer pass of Jim’s palm, something dark and sour balling in the pit of his stomach. He takes a breath; thinks instead of the way he’d grown to often visit his Captain in the evening hours. Each time, if Jim was freed from the confines of paperwork, Spock would find a book in his grip. He would find that, while most times Spock was familiar with the contents, sometimes — Spock glances at Jim. For all that Jim frets about his wellbeing in this moment, Spock ensures that someone keeps an eye on Jim’s.
“I beg to differ, seeing as you are indeed native to the planet Vulcan.” His words affect their usual back and forth, but Jim’s moderate relief is palpable given their skin on skin contact - the fact that Spock is even able to make an attempt is a good sign, at least. The water around them continues to rage, swirling beneath the debris, which is being steadily pulled towards the middle of the room by virtue of the conflicting currents. It kicks up a spray of cold water that has Jim shifting, positioning his back to hopefully catch most of it - but given the circumstances, there’s not much more he can do. Dammit.
“I take it you approve, given your penchant for efficiency.” Jim feels Spock’s flesh slowly begin to warm beneath his hand; it’s too much to hope that the green tinge will start to fade from Spock’s countenance, but hope valiently he does, regardless. There is so much to consider - too much, his mind spinning off in so many different directions - and it’s then that Jim once again realizes how uncomfortable it must be for Spock. Whoever had designed this challenge had certainly not been setting out to make it easy.
The top of the tower must hold something of import, or so he hopes.
Spock wraps his arm with unnecessary (in Jim’s opinion) care, and though Jim tries in vain to quiet racing thoughts, there’s little to be done about rampant emotionalism. At least there is no fear - just the quiet hum of anxiety, interlaced with adrenalinecoldfondexasperation. The trails of his blood disappear beneath the makeshift bandage, pinkish water diluting and then fading away completely as it rolls down his skin. It’s good Spock’s not bleeding, for a whole host of reasons - not least of which is the lack of available material on Jim’s person to fashion him a bandage, and humor enters the mix, dark though it may be.
The stutter is sliding quickly into the not a good sign category, but Jim takes it in stride, insofar as he can - though he can’t help but ponder over the rules from their tablet. Depending on the win conditions, even death could earn you a victory. That is not how Jim wants to earn a victory, no way, no how. And maybe death is dramatic, here, but a glance at the water still sets him wondering. Regardless, Jim’s not prime to letting Spock suffer. “Glad to know I’m a bookworm in every universe. Bones used to call me a stack of books on legs at the Academy, actually.”
“Don’t worry your Vulcan cranium about it, I can’t keep track either.” Jim thinks he sounded impressively offhand there, despite the concern leeching through. He smiles, a flash of confident, white teeth, so used to belying nerves it’s second nature. “I love paper books. Something about them, maybe the feeling of them? Have a little collection going, back home. Hey, I heard there’s a library here - we should go. Make an afternoon of it. I’ll buy you lunch, Commander, sweeten the pot.”
They deserve it, a break from challenges and escape prep. Jim takes his own deep, calming breath, letting it settle over his shoulders like a second skin. Okay, they’d made it. The crisis was far from over, but at least they’d made it (relatively) unscathed.
“We need to warm you up before we figure out how to get up there.” A cursory search of the environment makes it clear to Jim that there is not going to be easy; a platform above them, easily several hundred feet in the air. A problem for a moment from now, preferably when his Vulcan is back in thinking condition. Jim removes his hand from Spock’s side, peering at him seriously. “The best way I can figure to do that is to hug you, but I’m open to ideas. How are you doing?”
It’s not like he has anything else at his disposal to assist in the matter, given their state of dress and the room around them. No other useful debris has surfaced; it’s all flotsam and jetsam, yes, but nothing fabric. Even if there were, it’d be freezing and soaking wet; at least Jim’s skin is warm? Still, silly though it may sound, Jim’s aware of what that might do, and though he’s not fully apprised of the extent of Spock’s fraying control, he can take a pretty educated guess that it’s all a bit much, right now.
For all that Vulcans are quick to survive, they are quicker still to hold to a certain pride. That Spock has some of the latter, however, is of little consequence. It holds no influence on the subject, not when the subject is Jim. Not when the odds were stacked against them both and only one might find the way out. For all that Spock might find himself thinking that the lack of true death lessens the impact, he finds he too cannot abide Jim’s. Were it to come down to who and how and when, Spock finds himself twisted up in the sentiment of hoping it is him. Selfishly, illogically, he hopes it is Jim who outlives him.
And so, it is that that drives him too to study what manners of “out” that they have. There is chance still to forfeit, but he knows they are both too stubborn for it. The end might hold some crucial information. There is the possibility to free and be freed. Both. No matter how sluggish the process, he focuses on keeping them both afloat and alive. The walls are too high to climb. The waters are too dark and cold to survive. But, perhaps, there is a condition—
Jim prattles on about this and that, pulls Spock’s wandering mind what is here and present. Jim’s hand still rubs against his side, still brings with it the challenge to not lean into, but he knows it is nervousness. He has seen it before, on away missions. He has seen it in the ready room, in the med bay. He has seen it in the minutes before anyone might retrieve them, blood green as the grasses that live in the Terran heartlands smeared across the red break of hands, his heart, his wrists. Hazel and blue and hazel again, the eyes are the same. There is no difference, in the end.
“Naturally,” Spock tells him, his dark head tipped just so to view despite their perilous proximity. In all universes, in all times, Spock has always known him to be sharp and full of wit. He has known him to be the only Human to ever best him in chess. Spock has known him, in some ways, as he has known himself.
“I find these terms acceptable.” A minor pause. He means the books, the visiting of the library. He knows where it is situated, has been there several times before. It comes across in the fanning of pages, the momentary glimmer of brick and marble. A façade, both alike and unlike his own. “Though, perhaps it’s best to first examine Aldrip’s current options.”
A distraction, more for Jim. Jim, who has innumerable allergies. Jim, whom he watches closely, for any means or mode of reaction. He knows such shock can come on quickly, even more so in some Humans. Jim has always dealt with it. But, sometimes—sometimes, Spock remembered for him. Caught it for him.
“Jim,” he murmurs, eyes still and dark and quiet. He turns his head, gaze fixing upon the fathomless waters that churn beneath them. The sun of Jim’s attention is too much to meet, too much to soak in. It makes a mess of all that is vacant and abandoned in him, the loneliness that lives between the slats of his ribs. If he were to cave to it now, if he were to let it settle into the places between the marrow and soul, there would be no letting it go. There would be no uprooting it. He listens to the thrum of his own heart in his ears, to the way it both settles and skips, and knows it is not Jim’s burden to share. It is not his to grapple with, to answer it with mercy it neither deserves nor permits. All along his side, Jim’s hand is a weight as much as it is a secreted comfort. He cannot possibly ask of him—
“My controls are… Compromised.” His fingers twist in his lap, the cut and valley of his knuckles whitening under the movement. For all that Jim’s fondness and irritation and exasperation and fear strike against his skin, pluck across his nerves as though some sacred score, Spock knows his own limitations. He knows the cowardice that roils up in him, that bites against the delicate flesh of lungs and makes tight the walls of his stomach. He knows what Jim values in him, as much as he knows too what Spock values in him. For that, because of that, how might Spock ask for anything more?
“I will not be able to maintain adequate shielding, if I am to focus upon my physical state.” I’m sorry, he does not say. But, need he? The sentiment is carried in the dip of his shoulders, the downward tuck of his chin. It wears the face of shame, perhaps, but it is not less difficult to decipher. Spock heaves a breath, the heat of his own blood beginning to return in crawling increments to the most vital parts of him. “I do not wish to cause you discomfort.” I’m sorry, that you worry for me like this .
Jim would rather forfeit in a heartbeat than have to sit there and watch Spock perish. That would be its own kind of loss, temporary or not (and dear God, the nagging but what if it isn't temporary? would surely kill him), and one far greater than any stupid tower challenge. Jim's been down this road before, in reverse, and he'd like to keep it that way - he'd much rather be the one taking the bullet, to affect a 21st century idiom. When in Rome, right?
"It's a date." The words slip out before Jim can think better of them, but the situation is too dire to linger on his terminal foot-in-mouth syndrome for long. It does sound nice, though - jeez, when was the last time Jim actually had shore leave? They've been in deep space for so long, the endless enormity of the cosmos spread before them, and then - he was here, and they were working tirelessly, eyes blurring in front of his computer station or fingers aching from handling delicate components. The only reason Jim really took breaks at all was to deal with Bones. And now this, this damned tower.
Yeah, they could do with a day off.
"What, you don't like bootleg indoor whitewater rafting?" Jim snorts, pressing his knuckles down onto the wood of their floating debris. It doesn't hurt, necessarily, but it does ground him in the moment - he's fine, he barely even drowned a little, but he knows how to ride adrenaline surges with the best of them. Knows how easily someone can crash from them, but he's fine. Really. Surely. He's not doing any worse than Spock, at least, and one of them has to be closer to optimal, or they're screwed.
But the way Spock says his name, his first name, so softly, immediately makes Jim's focus ten times more intense. For all that Spock doesn't emote - not in the typical ways, not unless you're well-versed in minute Vulcan facial expressions the way Jim is (his defense is that he stares at the guy's face any given number of waking hours why are you staring, Jim. Jim. Jim why are you staring.) - but for all that he doesn't emote, his body language does. The bundle of tension between his shoulderblades, the way his hands tangle together - Jim has seen Spock hold his composure many ways, but this is different. Something in Jim softens, achingly gentle, and he's glad he'd thought to remove his hand from Spock's side only moments before, so he doesn't have to feel it so acutely through Jim's own mind.
"Spock," Jim echoes back to him quietly, and the softness is evident in clear blue eyes - not pity, never pity, but the full force of Jim's empathy, unleashed. "You - "
Jim pauses for a moment, re-ordering how best to convey his sentiments, taking into consideration all the outlying factors. The unspoken apology they can both hear, the discomfiture that always surrounds addressing emotions so directly - not when Jim does it, when his humanity so frequently slips free of his control, but when Spock is the one compromised - the ignominy of it, even when it's just the two of them, even though Spock already knows there's nothing to apologize for.
But saying any of that would only make it worse, as Jim is well aware.
"You will always have my full confidence." Jim says instead, slowly, pressing upon how resolute he is in this regard. "Always and completely, Spock. And I know you would never abuse it. So I want you to hear me and understand, that? That will never cause me discomfort."
He can't rightly say it wouldn't cause Spock malaise, but for Jim? He would - and does - give the whole of himself, freely, knowingly. For the sake of his friend, Jim would give his life - everything else is just gravy.
"Please," Jim reaches out deliberately, settling a warm hand on Spock's shoulder, actually trying to focus this time. The thrum of trustwarmthfaithfriendship pulses at the forefront of his mind, as he tries his best to push out everything else. "Never allow yourself to labor under the impression that it would."
That Jim would ever turn away from Spock for what he is, for what he cannot control? That Jim would not take him as he is, every time, for all time? Preposterous.
"I have an idea, actually." Words that sometimes precipitate disaster, but Jim's not making any sudden moves to dive off their sanctuary into the churning water, so small blessings it is. He turns to lay on his side, the debris rocking slightly at the shift in body weight, raising an arm in clear invitation.
The concept is an oddity. Experience without expectation, the stretch of the day lazy and filled with meandering purpose. He had never allowed himself to explore such things in earnest, mind alight with the possibilities that linger beyond and before him. He had never earned keep in the places that raised him, in the spaces that were bent to fit his impossible edges. He had never once known what it was, to feel as though “belonging” was a possibility. How might something upon the outskirts know the truth of a fire? How might they know, too, what it was to be warm?
Progress is slow. Time extends, loops about itself. And yet, no matter where it is that Spock goes, there is always this constant: an easy back-and-forth, an extension of a hand. A person who, beyond even himself, he might know and see the truth of. A steady light, where his does not seem to burn to begin.
The way Jim pulls him toward later, toward something else— he knows it for what it is. It’s a promise. A reassurance. Spock grants it, knowing that there will be in some manner or another. He grants it, more with the minute raise of a brow, the smoothing of the furrow that makes itself known beneath the blunt edge of his fringe. As always, as ever, Jim knows when to press, where to skirt the enormity of what Spock cannot say.
But, were he able to, what might he do with it? asks a quieter part of himself. What would he do with it, if given it hand over fist? All that is weak and dark and wounded, poured into the grip that welcomes him. Does he know what it is he is asking of him? Does he know what it is he lures to the surface with the surety of self, the surety of self that even Spock does not possess? The war that he carries on, the precarious balance – the exhaustion, of knowing what is true and what is reflection? His nails dig crescents into the skin. In the valleys between fingers, in the delicate webbing, what whitens cuts copper and olive. It does not hurt, not truly. It grounds.
You’ll always be cold and distant. Inevitably, eventually, Spock’s eyes find Jim’s. Like a moon somewhere. And eventually, inevitably, Spock takes him in.
Sincerity had once been a friend to him. Warmth, a companion. As with all that grows and presses against the boundaries of existence, he had come to learn what it was to be questioned. He had learned what it was he might have expected, piecemealed from the mouths who would see him instead as abomination. He had known what it was to love, to be loved. He had known, acutely, how it was to lose it. Family, a place of belonging, a sense of what comprised him – was it truly within the realm of surprise? He’d once felt ashamed to have grown so close to Jim so quickly. He had once felt ashamed, to hope such importance was felt in duplicate. And now, when Jim holds out such firm and unshakeable belief in the person before him, how can it surprise that Spock views it first as a knife? How can it surprise, when not struck soon after with both the weight of disappointment and the cast of despair, that something in him shifts? Hungry and heedless, it winds about his ribs somewhere. It climbs, no matter how ruthless his attempts to ignore it. It quiets, when Jim’s hand leaves the curve of his shoulder. It reaches, when Jim settles back.
“I once told you,” Spock starts, soft and sudden, “that you almost make me believe in luck.”
Their little raft rocks, sways under the movement of Jim’s body. Now, it too is disturbed under the movement of his. Jim had made it seem so simple, so obvious. And Spock, too, had known it. But, posed to him now and under such confidence, how might he ignore it? The offer is logical, practical. It is not without merit. And yet, because he is as he is, there are no ideal means to exercise it. Not as they are. Not at present.
But, for all Jim trusts him—
It is awkward, as it always is, attempting to fit into spaces that one believes are not theirs. It is a frisson of uncertainty, a scintilla of distrust. But, as Spock somehow manages to keep them afloat as he settles beneath the stretch of a golden arm, he finds it somehow isn’t. Close enough that he might feel the heat of an exhalation against the back of his neck, he finds himself unable to recall the last time he’d allowed himself any such closeness. Be it for necessity or otherwise, his mind cannot draw up a time before now that he’d not felt the thrum of failure, had felt the weight of missed expectations. Neither Human nor Vulcan, he’d learned not to want what could not be given. He’d learned what it was to take what was provided, to live with the paths he had chosen. He closes his eyes and thinks of hillsides, of ancient stone and bark. He thinks of the world, turned upside-down. He thinks of it righted, with great patience and persistence. He thinks of the sound of the wind, the grasses grown golden and long. He thinks of fields, freshly tilled. He thinks of all he has seen and has not seen, the impermanent slant of the sun.
“I had never thought it fair, to attribute your successes to it.” Not when, he does not say, I am witness to what you grapple with, to what you face to earn the loyalty of those who would serve you. But, he needn’t. He shouldn’t. His words are too lost upon his own tongue, cut over his teeth. Born anew, in ways that are both careful and precise, as he too must always remain. “You win them by your own merit. You still do.”
The water still washes up over the sides. Spock knows it to be settling, inertia still carrying what lingers beneath the surface.
“You must tell me,” he says after a long moment, “If it becomes too much.”
Trust. His own trust. Extended back to him. It is easier to speak, when his face is turned from Jim. It is easier to process, with his hands held still against his own chest. It is easier to remember what it is he must be doing.
Like this, he turns his own thoughts and energies toward the regulation of his own body – his own blood. He does it not only for himself, but for Jim. After all, he reminds himself, after all, against the continual press of tides and the enduring chill, it will bring Jim stability too.
Jim has often struggled with slowing down, taking a break. And for all that he can bounce from one illogical topic to the next, for all that his brain can make leaps and bounds on a whim, he can also be of singular, intense focus, sometimes, and that has a tendency to wear a person down (even if they suck at realizing it). Somehow, though, the idea of spending that required restful time with Spock is not as daunting or as unpleasant as it is when Bones keys his way into Jim's quarters and threatens him into a poor facsimile of rest. Perhaps it's because - if Jim's being totally honest - he doesn't really like spending time with himself. Alone with his thoughts, inevitably, tends to be an uncomfortable place to be.
But with Spock, it's. Different. It's always easier to ignore the wandering ruminations that tend to plague him when in the company of others, but with Spock - sometimes, it's as though Jim forgets they exist completely. No longer looming over his shoulder, he is free to just simply...be. He's never voiced this to anyone, of course, because he can hear that rude, sneering voice that belongs to no one and everyone already: More comfortable with a Vulcan? What are you repressing that badly?
But it's - not so. Spock is brilliant and sharp and witty; he makes Jim laugh, the kind of laugh you forget is possible until it explodes out of you unexpectedly, unbidden. He's kind, and fiercely compassionate, if one knows where that compassion hides itself: in the gentle tip of his head, the secreted curve of his lip, the practiced, careful motions of his hands.
While Jim knows he holds Spock's friendship (is lucky to), it's too much, and too silly, to think that Spock could feel precisely the same sense of ease in his own presence (because when has his presence ever been a balm?), but Jim appreciates it on his own terms, nonetheless.
So in the rare instances when Spock shows him the merest of glimpses beneath the outer layer, the tiniest of chinks in the armor he wears so wholly and completely, Jim knows better than to poke at it. He has no desire to chip away at the soft thing that lurks beneath; as much as he teases and jests, it's never been with malice. Instead, he simply cups his hands, and waits. Waits to catch him, promises unerringly that always that he will, should his friend ever crack and fall.
He never does. Still, Jim promises anyway.
He's not sure what would happen, if that day ever comes; and Jim doesn't bother to speculate. In any scenario, however, Jim cannot think of anything that would make him turn away, anything that he would not grasp with both hands before it hit the ground. It's an impossibility.
Spock turns to settle after a moment, Jim watching him patiently, meeting his dark gaze with the same firmness with which he suggested the solution in the first place. Hands extended, poised to catch, though Spock never stumbles. Jim would be remiss if he didn't, and when it comes to Spock, that's one thing he endeavors never to be. He's careful to try and keep his thoughts as clear as they can be as Spock tucks up against him, brushing his bare skin in several places. Jim is prone to forgetting himself, on occasion; a hand on Spock's shoulder here, a nudge with his elbow there. There's always clothing between them to dampen the effect of his transgressions. Here, after the discussion they just had, it's impossible for Jim to be unaware.
Still, he tries to keep the embarrassing pleased feeling out of his mind at Spock's words, settling his arm carefully around Spock's midsection. His hand flattens against Spock's side, over his heart, feeling the lively vibration under his palm. "Why, Mr. Spock, you say the sweetest things."
His tone is gentle, the tenor of his thoughts clear where they sizzle against the points of contact; a tacit acceptance, an appreciation. He need not embarrass Spock with further declarations; what's happening right now is surely enough to do that on its own. Jim's hand soothes against Spock's side, resuming the warming motion from before, slow circles over his heart. "I will. And you, Spock. Please. I won't be offended."
And then Jim scoots forward, and presses the whole of his chest against Spock's back, drawing him in firmly.
Jim's plan takes a moment to make itself immediately apparent, the chaos of his mind and emotions swelling, as is only normal. Pushing them down has never had any efficacy, so Jim takes a deep breath, warm air exhaled slowly against the back of Spock's neck, and tries a different approach.
coldsprayofwater - trustworryisheokay - determinationwarmthfond - Can't just tell yourself not to think of a pink elephant -
His thoughts reorder, resolve settling over him, another puff of warm breath against Spock's cool skin.
To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,
The poem rises in Jim's mind with clarity of focus; he's clearly committing himself to remembering it, and not shying away from the memories and feelings that surface when he does. Giving into them makes it easier, at least in Jim's opinion; it's easier to filter out the swirl of chaos and conflict, to keep calm. Not blank - that is beyond him, as they're both well aware - but calm, perhaps, he can do.
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
The warmth of sunlight, pouring in through the window while he flips through brittle pages. The Yale Shakespeare, the set of completed works, Jim devouring them fervently. Easy to tune out the yelling downstairs, easy to find comfort and joy in the poems and plays - love, heartbreak, anger, everything. The one he has memorized is his favorite, one he returned to again and again.
Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
The words taste good in his mouth, ripened sweet just like the fruit he bites into; lazy days beneath the apple tree, the summer haze leaving him untouched in the cool of the shadows. The book is worn, creased from use, but he is 13 and does not understand he should be careful; he carries the unbelievably thick tome with him most days, his name scrawled carelessly on the inside cover.
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.
Himself, the Captain - how many times had they avoided the possibility leave? How many times had Spock had to remind him of his body's limitations? Even Jim, so sturdy and determined as he is, still required rest. He still, as Spock most often ensured, required nourishment.
And yet, was he not just as stubborn? Was he not just as reluctant? How many times had Jim insisted he eat with him? How many times had the Captain invited him to his quarters for chess?
"Statements cannot carry gustatory elements, Captain,” Spock says, tone lighter on the tongue than it is in the mouth. It takes considerable efforts to field the flood, to answer beneath the hand that had for so long accepted those who reached for it. For all that Spock might filter, there is sentiment that remains. Dark earth to rain, gold in the grit of sediment – Jim’s thoughts and emotions alight against the curious, blind things that rest beneath his skin. It Takeshi time, to quiet them. It takes concentration, to lead them from what they might only perceive as potential, as prospect. They are not Spock's to know, not Spock's interpret. He settles, centers. The water roils and laps. “Furthermore, preliminary evidence suggests that most would find my words quite unpalatable.”
Easy openings, easy conversational paths. Easy, he thinks, to remember a time before he might have accepted what it is that Jim means. What it was, he knows now, Jim always meant. For all the ways that they spar, for all the ways that they differ - there is no disquiet in him. This is Jim, he knows. This is Jim, whom he advises. Who advises him. If there is anything that Spock might know with certainty, it is that Jim has earned such loyalty. And Jim, too, has earned his.
Life upon a starship is seldom without hazard. He knows as well as Jim does that situations may crumble and dynamics may shift, but Spock has never once sought another position. He has never once considered an alternative, a charge he might call his. He does not want it, he thinks. He knows what solidity, competency, and efficiency define - and he knows it is not him. Not as captain. No, he knows, those ranks do not belong to him. He knows, as surely as the words and images that move in piecemeal across the boundary of what is himself and what is Jim.
“One-oh-four,” Spock recites without much thought, soft and faithful and sure. His skin burns with each point of contact, but it does not injure. It does not bring him harm. He focuses on the weight of Jim’s palm, the callouses both familiar and new. His heart thrums, rabbit-quick and restless, and recalls a time that such a revelation of placement had brought some alarm. He recalls, too, the moments that it had brought others relief. He shivers, the sense of cold beginning to return. He tamps down upon it, knowing it to be a sign of lessening degrees of hypothermia, but surely - he holds himself a burgeoning calm. A minor balm to residual worry he defines as not his own. He feels the fold of paper beneath fingertips, the summer of its tooth and wear.
He considers, the equilibrium of his body slowly returning.
"It is the star to every wand’ring bark. Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken."
Funny that they should both neglect themselves, yet insist upon proper care for the other. It was illogical by anyone's count - Jim had his excuse, what was Spock's? But perhaps they - dare he say it - on occasion, stood to be a good influence on each other.
When they're not jumping off cliffs together, that is. Somewhere, Bones was rolling in his early grave.
"I'm going to have to beg to differ, there." Jim teases right back at him, helping the tone to shift to something lighter, unburdened, despite the truths they'd so neatly danced around moments ago. His subsequent response is low, murmured rhetorically; perhaps too low for another human to hear, something he might presume to be lost against the back of Spock's neck, if not for Spock's superior hearing range. "...Guess I'm the outlier that shouldn't be counted, hm?"
Jim commits himself fully to the task at hand, trying his best to stay on target. It's hard not to let his thoughts slip to the thousand other things they need to worry about - is it working, is Spock warming up? Will the water currents kick up a fuss and dump them right back in? How are they supposed to get up to the next platform? But he tries his best, taking it as a good sign when Spock shivers against him. He's also resolute in not letting this get awkward, as it so easily could if he were to let his mind wander towards - focus, focus, do not pass GO do not collect 200 credits -
Spock recognizes the sonnet, which is no surprise, and Jim smiles, closing his eyes to keep his concentration. His hand continues the slow circle, feeling Spock's pulse jump beneath his ministrations - a good sign, surely, that lifeblood was returning, flooding warm to everywhere it was sorely needed. Spock's skin is cool where they're pressed together, and Jim's definitely not thinking about the fact that this is the first time he's ever hugged Spock, and he definitely never thought they'd do such a thing shirtless - he's not thinking about it, see, he's FOCUSED - Spock offers another bit of poetry in return, one that blooms in Jim's mind even as he draws up the subsequent line:
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come.
A sandy-headed child, crunching grass underfoot, jumping around his brother on their way to school, the trek into town from the farmhouse. Sam, brushing him off even as Jim batted his eyes and recited poetry to him, laughing all the way. Why do you bother with that stuff, Jimmy?
Girls like it, duh. Jim had replied, but that wasn't true at all, he liked it. Liked the cadences, liked the endless flow the words possessed. Was drawn in by the promise of love, of unshakeable acceptance; the sweetness and the ache of it, even as, or perhaps especially as, a child -
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
He doesn't wonder what Spock sees in the poems, how he interprets them; he doesn't speculate, see, look at him not speculating? I wonder if - Because that would be rude, even though his brain is like a train he's never been in control of, veering towards whatever topic it so chooses.
They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Jim presses his forehead into Spock's shoulder, exhaling slowly, hand still sweeping against his side. Cuddling him and reciting Shakespeare, an activity Jim had certainly considered before, back when he was young to the world and romantic that way (but not necessarily with his First Officer) - it would be funny, if Spock weren't so cold. Maybe it would be funny in a day or two. Bones wasn't even here to laugh at him, though. Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
He should think that the Doctor ought to be having a right “fit” by now, as Jim would so term it. Complete with exaggeration of what he would like to do to their skins and any colorful insults. He would make quite the display of it, hands weaving incomprehensible patterns through the open air, face turning a steadier shade of purple. However, the good Doctor is not here and so there is no judgement that may be cast upon them for their seemingly stubborn impasse.
"Your considerations shall always be counted," Spock says, softer than he ought and softer than most should ever muster. The jest drawn is not jest at all and Spock has known of it. He has played with words in such fashions, drawn them about his fingertips to imply instead of lie, to exaggerate where he required obfuscation. That Jim weaves language in the same manner does not surprise him. He has encountered it times innumerable but had so rarely been upon the receiving end of it. Why it is he garners it now is not without mystery, but still Spock feels oddly compelled to curtail it. As he opens his mouth again, thinking perhaps to append further declarations, he finds himself beginning to shiver in earnest.
He tells himself that it is simply part of the process, that (typically) autonomic movements are essential to temperature regulation and detail a safer baseline, but it starts from the back of his neck. It notches along his spine, works down to the soles of his feet. The ribs beneath Jim’s hand rise, the next exhalation hitching on reflex. It takes much of the controls he has left to rein it, to contain it, but he manages. He manages, just as Jim manages to settle the tidal quality of his own thoughts, golden grain and golden skin. He sees for a moment himself as Jim, seedlings taken root. Sam. Against the back of his eyelids, the jab mirrors those found in many Human dynamics. He knows, innately in the ways that someone who has served so closely to him, that Jim had grown to favor the poetry for what it represented. He knows that Jim—
His own recollections settle and overlay, side-by-side. Snippets of what Jim gives him, matched with the quiet of a child tucked in his father’s estate. Dark haired and dark eyed, he turns the book over in his palms and tries to view the title without disruption. He can almost get it right, can almost structure the letters in ways that make sense to him. He moves his mouth, contemplative and soundless, and then:
“Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,” he recites, his voice held against the way a wary warmth blooms across the bank of his shoulder, in the spaces between what is Spock and what is his Captain, “As with your shadow I with these did play.”
He knows, before he knows, that he should move. He knows he should inform Jim that they are likely to be successful in the endeavor to warm him momentarily, that they should look for a means to escape their current predicament. He thinks he should open his eyes, stir beneath the hand that keeps him still without true weight or power behind it. He thinks, but then—Jim rests his forehead against him. His movements are easy, untroubled. He wonders, as Spock wonders, when was the last time anyone might have touched him in such a way. His mother, perhaps. Held as a child. Kept safe in the cradle of her arms. A former lover. Temporary, momentary, fleeting—
There is no expectation. Not here. Jim does not hold out for more than what Spock might give him and Spock, too, does not demand anything more. It is just them. Necessity or not, it is just this.
And, in the next moment, it is the rumbling overhead. A tired sounding ding of antiquated electronic confirmation. If Spock is suddenly ensuring that Jim remains close by as their little raft begins to heave steadily upward? Well, it’s an easy tell. He snakes a hand back, far steadier than before, and settles it over the fabric that he’d dutifully tied over the injury that Jim had endured. Where he lays it shouldn’t touch it directly, but even so.
Even so—
Where are they next unceremoniously dumped? Well, at least it will register as dry.
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.
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.
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.
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expiationlogs2024-05-13 12:27 am
for Spock (ashaya)
The last door awaits him, lighting up yellow with the corresponding symbol on his tablet, but this time - there’s a small table waiting for him in the hallway. Huh. That’s…new. Jim sets the tablet down in the basket as the sign on the wall indicates, retrieving the small pile of fabric in its place. When he unfolds it, it’s -
“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”
It’s a pair of red booty shorts, like he’s an extra in Grease 12, that old musical they’d always show at the picturama back in Iowa - for the family friendly screening he’d sneak into with Sam, before they stuck around for the age-inappropriate creature feature afterwards. Jim squints at it for a second, and the sign that reads: Place all of your belongings in the basket; take with you only the uniform.
“What kind of a uniform is this?” Jim wonders aloud, looking around for some kind of camera in the hallway, to whomever is watching and judging the completion of the challenges - but there’s nothing, so he sighs, and starts to pull off his shirt.
Like he said, he’s no quitter.
There’s a matching sweatband he uncovers, so he dons that as well, trying not to feel utterly ridiculous. When he goes to try the door, though, it’s stuck, refusing to open.
His tablet pings in the basket, lighting up with the repeated instructions: Place all of your belongings in the basket; take with you only the uniform.
“What…aw, seriously?” Jim looks down at himself, trying to figure out where he went wrong, but there’s only one thing it could be.
The uniform didn’t come with underwear.
Once Jim divests himself of his boxer briefs, the lock on the door clicks open, allowing him into the room. The first thing he notices is that it’s hot, light from an indiscernible source bearing down on the bottom of the room - well, he’s grateful for the sweatband, at least, he has a feeling he’s going to need it. The second thing Jim notices is the sand, red and gritty beneath his bare feet. There’s nothing else there, for the moment, but Jim’s betting - some kind of physical challenge, with his state of (un)dress? That’s Jim’s best guess, shirtless and starting to perspire - but given that he doesn’t have his tablet anymore, he’s reliant on whomever his partner is for the challenge instructions.
dial up noises in vulcan
He'd rather not, he thinks. But, the signage had been explicit. The basket sits on the table and Spock stares it, moves about it once, and determines there are no mechanisms at the bottom that would "snitch," as Humans call it. Moreover, "unnecessary" had variable definitions.
So, he tests the theory and deposits his tablet and, after reaching down to unzip them, his regulation boots. He waits.
That is not "all items," sir.
Spock's mouth tugs at one corner. It is not downward, but it is not upward either. He considers adding items in tiered levels of importance, but then the tablet lights up again: Necessary, in this case, is all clothing and outside items, sir.
There may be what qualifies as a frown upon his face now, but there are no witnesses to verify it. It is not what he would term ideal for a challenge, but Spock has no particular compunctions about changing in the supplied space once he performs a cursory examination of the items available for wear and determines the relative privacy of the room. He is accustomed to sharing space aboard the Enterprise, familiar with communal showering systems, but he has reasonable doubts (within a 6.2% chance of error) that most have been desensitized to standard nonsexual nudity.
That's all to say: he complies with the instructions (now that he's been cornered) and slips on the assigned attire. It is not wholly dissimilar to the loose pants worn during the practice of Suus Mahna. But - there is no shirt or tunic to accompany it. Spock does not sigh, precisely, but he does let out a long breath.
He'd been reasonably cautious about the structure, but the risks fall shy of the potential benefits. He knows he is playing their game, but Jim had plowed on ahead. One of them had a high enough chance of winning and thus could leave and disseminate the information to the other, but it did not mean that Spock found any gratification in supplying the "challenge" any further data upon them.
But, all aside: the ambient temperature of the room is entirely unsuited to Vulcans for extended periods. Predictable, but it is bearable enough for the moment. If he moves through the motions of depositing other items into the supplied basket a touch more efficiently? Well, no one is about to call him on it. And so, after briefly smoothing over his supplied pants, Spock suppresses the instinctual urge to shiver as he reaches over to tab open the door.
What hits him first is the scent. Human sweat. Warmth. The harsh angle of artificial sun. Sand. The grit of it is pronounced under the naked soles of his feet as he crosses the threshold and Spock tamps down on the visceral shame that lurches up from his chest, hungry and viscous. He imagines himself seizing it, unspooling the stubborn strands from the fine muscle and tissue it anchors into. He visualizes further, as the individual he happens upon as the doors slam shut behind them crystallizes.
"Captain," Spock says. His voice is calmer than his pulse would suggest, pilomotor reflex kicking in despite the temperature of the room being best suited to him. He has seen Jim in less... Modest attire, but it appears this environment is a rather pointed jab. He clears his throat, glances toward the opposite wall. He thinks of vasodilation, wills himself back along the lines of constriction.
His ears are hot.
And so too is the shame that continues to reign.
the voicemail box you have reached has not been set up yet ;3
Jim knows they both strategically agreed to the pop-up on their tablets, upping their chances of making it through whatever challenge had been devised in the hopes of learning more about Aldrip and the powers that be - but when Jim had awoken, alone on the bottom floor, Spock was nowhere to be seen. He hadn't seen heads or tails of him throughout his journey up the tower; while it wasn't unexpected, necessarily, Jim wouldn't deny he was glad to see him now. Hopefully this was one of the challenges they'd be able to complete together - if Spock was here now, he must have garnered his other wins, right? Either way, at least one of them would make it to the top.
Jim lightly jogs across the open space, towards the middle, to meet Spock halfway. He gets there and stops, hands on his hips, feet buried in the warm sand - which feels kind of nice, actually, though he's definitely going to need to hydrate afterwards. The temperature of this room has clearly been calibrated to Spock-levels; there's sweat gathering on Jim's neck, droplets of moisture starting to collect and roll down his shoulders. "Man, am I glad to see you. We made it, at least."
He'd offer a high-five, but he knows his audience.
Spock is also half-naked, though with a bit more in the pants department. Jim fakes a huff, gesturing to his companion and decidedly not looking at Spock's broad chest, what with the very aesthetically-pleasing dusting of dark hair that resides there. What? Jim's only human, and a red-blooded Terran male at that. Hey! He said he's not looking. "Oh, so you get the cutoffs and I look like I should be holding pom-poms? Typical."
But given that he's not looking at Spock's nakedness, he is looking at his face, and Jim's own expression starts to pull into a bit of a worried frown. He's proven he knows Spock's not-expressions by now, and this one is...tense. For no reason that Jim can detect, anyway - it's clear Jim has no idea that the situation, the sand, has any kind of deeper meaning. "Are you okay? Looking a little green around the gills. Run into any trouble getting up here?"
Jim wouldn't be surprised, given his own circumstances, but it's not something he thinks either one of them will want to discuss.
drat :(
As always, he saves it "for another day."
"I am acceptable, thank you." His expression is still and silent, a neutral mask. There is little that gives way to anything within it, but Jim has always been able to find the remnants of emotion somewhere. No matter how Spock had attempted to disguise or evade, Jim had made any such efforts child's play. Once, it had deeply troubled him. Now? In these circumstances, it causes a sort of disquiet. For all that Jim remains Jim across any cosmic divide, there are things this Jim has not yet experienced. There are things, undoubtedly, that that Spock has never explained. If he is fortunate, he will be free of it for many years yet. But — "The fluctuations in ambient temperature likely contributed to an unusual degree of vasodilatation."
But, the shame still lingers. It flickers in the dark of his eyes, the way he folds his arms loosely across his bare chest. His skin feels at once numb and over-sensitized. A peculiar sensation, were he to examine it, but wholly unpleasant. He turns his head toward Jim, the blunt cut of his bangs ruffled from the earlier change of attire. He'd had no time to fix it, regrettably distracted by the environment as he was. "I am also gratified to see you, though more so to see you've made it through whole."
Tamping down on what emotional lapses linger, he focuses his attention on Jim's face. He can feel the vague curiosity that possesses Jim, knows Humans have a more difficult time restricting it, but he makes no comment. Instead, his eyes search him. Upon cursory examination, he appears wholly uninjured, but there is more to harm than physical expression. Jim appears already at odds with the environment, perspiring as he is, but that is the worst of what he gathers. At least, for the moment.
As Spock goes to further elucidate on his status and inquire after Jim's, the far wall illuminates. Upon it, there is the representation of two individuals (stick figures?) and a set of instructions(?): Ride or die! A minimalistic representation of a wave skims across the individuals, showing them bobbing along above the surface. As time goes on and a seeming current starts to kick in, one fails to keep adrift. A check mark appears next to the remaining, signifying a "win."
"Ji—" Spock starts, but that's about as far as he gets.
Underfoot, the foundation rumbles.
And then, it splits.
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Spock is uncomfortable. That much is evident, despite all the Vulcan liked to pretend he was "perfectly adequate", or some such combination of synonyms. It's even more bewildering, given the fact that this room is closer to his usual temperature preferences. Jim tilts his head to the side, assessing, meeting Spock's deep, dark gaze with his own sharp blue. "I've been worse."
And from what he's heard, this whole situation could have been a lot worse. At least one of them will make it to the top now, hopefully both - and hopefully whatever is happening in this room won't be too rough on either of them. Jim's already spilled a wealth of secrets at Spock's feet - what can be worse than that?
He should know better than to even think a challenge like that.Jim opens his mouth, perhaps to call Spock's bullshit out - but the indicator on the wall interrupts him, brightening with their LED instructions. It doesn't look promising - a physical challenge this time, it seems like - and Jim barely has time to cut his gaze back over to Spock when the animation ends before he feels the floor begin to shift.
Right under his feet, because he's the dumbass standing directly in the middle of the room.
"Woah!" Jim skitters back a step, onto Spock's side of the crevasse opening in the floor - the sand is disappearing into it, or quickly being washed away by the water that bubbles forth. He nearly slips and falls as the water rises beneath his heel, hissing in surprise at how icy cold it is - a stark contrast to the heat from above, almost painful in the dissonance. Jim's more than sure it'll suck more in a minute or two - the water is rising swiftly, already starting to lap at his calves.
"Okay, we can - " But whatever he's going to say is lost to further cracking along the walls, more water rushing in from high points above them. They weren't kidding about the current that was already starting to make itself apparent, rushing forces from all sides creating a pull in the water. "...how long can you tread water?"
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And Spock isn't thinking, before he's immediately closing the gap between them just enough to seize Jim's forearm with one, pale hand. He's pulling him, knowing Jim will soon realize why it is he's doing this, his mouth flattening into a thin line as he runs through possibilities. There aren't many. But, the few that are available? Certainly worth the attempt.
"I have never attempted to exceed the Starfleet standard," Spock tells him, adjusting his grip. That isn't the most relevant bit of information, however. He knows that. He knows too that Jim will insist on assisting, but the challenge is only a challenge. If he loses, it means little to him. And more so, if it means only his own failure? Acceptable, he thinks.
"Captain, only one of us has to lose," he continues, pitching his voice above the roar of the water. He picks his way across the riptides rapidly forming about the middle of the room, dragging Jim alongside him. His grip is firm, just this side of bruising, but his bone density serves to anchor them both anyway. Against the rising tide and the sharp increase in erosion, Spock knows their chance to survive the challenge lies within the bounds of two point three standard minutes. By then, the current will sweep them both off their feet regardless of its relative shallowness.
Still, he knows better than to keep to corners and the direct center. He tracks the progression of fissures and stations them firmly in the singular location that appears safest. The current should pull in one direction once settled, thus cutting horizontal— he turns to face Jim, dark gaze piercing.
"The odds of my keeping afloat longer than you is approximately one thousand two hundred and thirteen point seven percent to one." There's a stubborn set to his jaw as he says it, a kind of perfect calm. "It is therefore logical—"
Whatever the argument, it quickly becomes moot. Water rushes in faster, fiercer. Spock can't suppress the chatter of his own teeth, the way his hand flexes about Jim's arm. There's no point in recalculating the odds as the LED lights at the far wall flicker and dim. The wall is bowing in. And then—
The water surges, impossible and heavy, up and over their heads.
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"So we've got four minutes," Jim translates, determination settling in over his shoulders. Spock is still holding onto his arm, keeping him in place, which while it's a boon now - it'll definitely be an issue as the water rises. And it is an issue, though it's becoming perfectly apparent that Spock doesn't seem to think it one. Jim's exasperation, if it weren't already understood via touch telepathy, is easily translated in his expression. "Commander, that's quitter talk. These challenges can have two winners, and we're going for the gold."
They stop in Spock's chosen location, the water easily hitting their knees now, the current already pulling strongly at them. It's only going to be worse as it gets higher, and when Spock turns to him, Jim grasps his forearm securely in return. "To hell with your odds, Spock! We're not going to - "
The interruption is abrupt and cold. So very cold, dousing them both - if gooseflesh is rising on Jim's previously heat-kissed skin, he knows it's on Spock's, too. And quite seriously, aside from the fact that Jim doesn't believe in no win scenarios, he's not letting Spock succumb to freezing cold water. It'll hurt his Vulcan companion a lot more than it'll hurt him, so if anyone is giving up, it's him, and also no one is giving up. Sacrifice plays come last, not first, and Jim's sticking to it.
The water swallows them whole, and for a second Jim's vision is clouded, his whole body submerged in buffeting water. His hand clenches down tighter on Spock's forearm - the current is trying to rip them apart, but Jim slides his arm up, hooking their elbows together. He flutter kicks upwards, hauling with all his strength - he's sure Spock is also kicking, or he hopes he is, and not simply waiting to sink to the bottom like the obstinate bastard he is.
Jim's head finally breaks above water, right as his lungs begin to burn, and he coughs, sucking in warm air. It would be funny, the way the wave has waterlogged the stupid sweatband on his head, but his hands find Spock's chest, trying to make sure he follows him to breaking above the water.
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Instinct holds no cards to the chest, but neither does Jim in this domain. For all that Spock knows him to be bright and affable and painfully brilliant, he knows him too as this: insufferable, impossible, and obstinate in ways that rival any Vulcan under their moonless sun. He knows it the second the water sweeps above their head. Jim will entertain no debate (no matter how logical and sound) and the surety of his conviction cleaves through him with more ache than the icy current that threatens to unmoor them.
"I had not meant securing victory by drowning, Captain." The retort is dry, sharp off the tongue, but the irritation Jim feels seems to have dampened the heat of his own. It is hard to keep himself afloat, harder still to keep them both above the settling waves, but he's already been told off once before for his predilections. Self-sacrifice, Jim had claimed, as if he were not guilty of the same. Spock sniffs, shakes his hair out of his eyes, and tries not to think of the way Jim's nails dig into his skin.
Spock knows they may leave at any time. The stakes are lower here. He has a theory that he may be able to fool the presumed computer— but, Jim won't let him. He can feel the steady thrum of his conviction, the absolute certainty that they might get through the process together, and Spock knows he'll refuse to budge as much as Spock wants to argue it. He knows if he were attempt to sink now, he'd take Jim with him. He knows, somewhere deep in the unexamined parts of himself, that Jim would rather take the risk than risk him.
Spock knows he is the same.
But, for all he doesn't realize it, his brow knits. The furrow that always tells tells and if one can manage to convey the reluctance to keep themselves above water to better the odds for the other? Spock does a bang up job of it. This trait, like Jim's heels digging in at the slightest provocation in this arena, is a constant. No matter how many times Spock cites logic, disguises his pleas as reason, Jim will uncover the raw core of it. Even when he obfuscates the truth, Jim knows. He finds its ugly edges, turns it over his palms. Held up to the light of the day, Spock once tried to convince himself he loathed it.
But now? He finds himself seeking other ways.
"I advise seeking suitable debris," he says, pushing the suggestion along more through touch than by the timbre of his own voice. The water still moves about them, attempting to discover the boundaries of its new confines, but the depth has stabilized. At least, for the moment.
Spock doubts it will remain the case.
He has another three point six minutes to tread water before the weight of him own anatomy dooms them both, but fewer if one counts the onset of potential hypothermia. Spock will fall to it far quicker than Jim, but there is no need for them both to suffer it. Already, he begins to feel the paradoxical warmth settling into his extremities despite the dark, pine-like flush that settles along the tips of his ears, the high points of his face. Forcing it back will require more mental concentration than he might afford without the implicit barrier he keeps between them and so he cycles it before he might pinpoint anything of significant. Or, perhaps, anything with meaning without further scrutiny.
As they bob, Spock scans behind the curve of Jim's shoulder, notes the periphery. If there is debris left to salvage for any sort of floatation, it has yet to surface. However, considering the masses that brush unseen against their tangled legs?
Maybe, just maybe, something will come their way.
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He can't. It's not in his nature, and maybe it is hypocritical - but humans were funny that way. This one especially, and especially in regards to those he cares about or those he regards as under his care (which makes the whole criminal negligence thing even more fucking bizarre). Spock's managed to get himself on both lists, regardless of whichever Captain Kirk he's supposed to be serving, so it's a losing battle - there is no debate to be had.
Not that it stops Spock from trying, most of the time.
"I concur, Mr. Spock," Jim puffs; keeping his own head above water is already a challenge with the way the conflicting currents keep pulling at them. In its own way, it kind of feels nice to move his body, though it surely won't for long, I should have been doing more stretches with how much desk work we've been doing-
There's no stopping the errant thoughts that are sure to break through, and Jim doesn't have a prayer in trying, but they have more pressing matters to attend to. Spock's already turning green, so that's what a blush would look like, huh? and that's definitely not a good sign, regardless of their sink or swim problem.
Jim readjusts his grip on Spock, moving around to cling to his side with his dominant hand, wrapping it under his arm in a lifeguard carry. The moment Spock can't tread anymore, the moment he becomes a lead balloon, Jim will need all the strength he can get to lift him. Whether or not it will make a difference remains to be seen, but they have to try. Jim won't accept anything less.
"Ow, shit!" Something hits him in the calf, a zing of aching pain that travels up his leg, and then it tumbles and catches him on his heel, beneath the water. "What the - "
As if Spock's summoned it, pieces of unrecognizable debris begin to surface. Driftwood, a barrel, a glob of kelp that bobs and swirls with the current. Jim eyes it for a second, wondering if any of it will be helpful in holding Spock's weight. Jim, he can float - it'll be a pain in the ass, probably get him knocked around six ways to Sunday, but he can float - but Spock needs something bigger.
"Hold on, there's something by my foot." Jim tries to kick at it again to reach whatever it was that had smacked him before, but it only barely grazes his toes as the water drags them around. He takes two seconds to debate how much Spock will object to his next course of action, and then doesn't wait around for an answer. "Give me a second here."
Jim takes a deep breath, and plunges beneath the water.
His hand slides down, keeping him anchored to Spock's leg as he searches below them in the darkness, current swirling, trying to break them apart. No dice, though, because Jim is stickier than a hog at the honey fair (Bones' incredibly confusing words, not his), and he finally manages to find the thing with his free hand, the other curled around Spock's calf like a lifeline. Whatever it is rises up rapidly, clipping Jim in the arm and narrowly missing his face - he surfaces again with a gasp of air, bobbing in the water.
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Spock takes a steadying breath, the effort seemingly monumental as the heart in his side skips a beat or five. He reminds himself firmly to keep Jim tucked against him, his hands locked about whatever limb or curve that Jim affords him access to as he continues to shift. Spock knows, logically, such a position he works himself into is provides more support to him, but the fluttering thoughts and curiosities that sweep across his skin are as distracting as they are perplexing. Why should Jim wonder now about the color of his flush in response to any vein of external stimuli? It is not nearly as appealing, he would think, as the pinkening of Humans. The aesthetic quality mirrors the warmth of a Terran dawn and Spock finds it fascinating that some are driven so easily to when experiencing a surge of emotion— No, he needs to focus. Spock cycles back to fortifying his mental shields, tamps down on the reflexive urge to shiver as Jim’s voice is more felt than heard as he tries to dissuade him.
“I am reasonably convinced—”
And then, Jim’s mind is working. He doesn’t have time to lodge a formal protestation to Jim’s determination, much less the way he decides the best course of action is to use his leg as a lifeline when he dips beneath the murky waves. Spock decides it is no longer relevant the moment Jim resurfaces, his ability to tread thankfully enough to keep them both afloat until the debris rises, almost catching Spock under the chin as it launches itself upward. Near as Spock can tell once the object settles is that it is a rather sizable… Chunk of a ship’s deck. Large enough to hold them both surely, which Spock doesn’t even consider until he’s certain that he’d been able to tug Jim over and closer and with him to avoid any further damage with a clipped Jim!.
Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately for Jim –, any sort of reasonable frustration is discarded in favor of concern. He knows that Jim has nicked himself, can smell the copper tang of Human blood in the water about them, and portions out enough strength to haul Jim up and onto the makeshift flotation device first. He’ll follow once Jim’s stabilized, but he’s going to have take a minute if he’s going to do it himself. In the meantime, he can grip the side and battle out the burn in his lungs. Now that he has something to hold onto that won’t insist on drowning with him, so long as Jim quits fighting him—honestly. He shakes his head, clears his vision again. Water sluices down his face, the chill of it less registered than the growing ache in his extremities.
He's got it. He'll be fine.
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But he digresses: their clock is ticking, and at least Spock has the good sense not to get into it now. Jim is sure they'll have plenty of time later - he'll kill Spock himself if they don't.
But hey, if it ain't broke? They don't have a lot of options here, and Jim has absolutely no problem shelving propriety in the face of extenuating circumstances (his dignity was always the first thing to go, it seemed). This Jim, in particular - he has no idea how the other Captain would handle the situation, but this one would much rather ask forgiveness than risk his crew. He'd take that trade any day, in a heartbeat, no questions asked. Jim's reasonably sure Spock's got about thirty million complaints to lodge, but they can wait for the after-action report. I bet he'd write one just for the hell of it -
Jim's a little disoriented when he surfaces, barely keeping the wherewithal to be able to kick his legs to aid in letting Spock pull him towards the debris. He's bleeding, but he doesn't feel it until Spock unceremoniously shoves him up, out of the water, and onto the chunk of wooden something-or-other. Jim's able to catch his breath just in time to fire off a string of curse words that would probably give the universal translator a lengthy pause, if they had one around.
"Sp-ock." Jim coughs, and he re-orients himself on the piece of deck, hovering a hand over Spock's wrist, completely ignoring the streaming cut on his arm, which dilutes as it mixes with the water dripping down his body. He doesn't touch him, but Jim's clearly ready to grab onto him the second it looks like Spock's in danger of losing his grip on the debris. "I can float, you stubborn - get up here! You're going to freeze!"
Greener than an Orion in the month of May, the Bones that keeps a running commentary in the back of Jim's brain helpfully adds. He doesn't exactly have anything to wrap his hands with to stop this being awkward, but he offers them anyway, should Spock choose to accept his help in getting up on the debris. He's definitely not going to take a non-attempt for an answer, not with how obviously Spock is suffering in the chilly water.
He wishes the flattened, water-logged bangs could be funnier, but Jim's in no laughing mood, with how the blotchy, green flush has taken over. They'd had one away mission where they'd been caught in an ice storm, and Jim knows it's no joke, how quickly Vulcans can succumb to low temperatures - cold and wet wasn't a good mix.
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Jim had always placed himself last and expected Spock not to act in mirror of it. It had been something that had vexed him at the beginning of their acquaintance, troubled him toward the middle of it. Now? His protestations underscore his actions. His is an obstinacy that mirrors the fiercest of Kirk-like tantrums, because who else should look after their Captain? Who else, if Jim would refuse to do it himself?
Spock's faculties are starting to failing him, which he finds a certain degree less concern for than he ought. Moderate degrees of hypothermia then, Spock concludes distantly. His legs still tread the swirling depths of the artificial tides, but the pattern is beginning to get sloppy. He focuses on the hand that Jim extends and thinks it won't do any further harm now to grasp it. He'd done it before. He'd done it many times since. He blinks.
He focuses on the stubborn clench of Jim's jaw. He thinks, if he is able to hoist himself up, he might help stem the bleeding. The bleeding, Spock knows, is not his own. And yet —
"Momentarily, Captain," he manages, finally. The syllables slur against the break of his teeth, come strange and heavy off the tongue. He grasps at the debris and wonders again and... Rather ungracefully hauls himself up with the loosest grip he might manage upon Jim's wrist. He can feel the harsh cycling of worryconcernworry and knows it to be pushed back and fed with his own, but Jim needn't. Not about him. Not when he is — and then he's up, spread across the slats, breathing shallowly.
He's not shivering. Water roars about their makeshift raft, drips from the dark of his hair. His hand hasn't yet released Jim, but his fingers are loose enough to escape without considerable effort. He tastes the blood this close, the scent thick in his mouth as he manages up and onto his elbows. He can see Jim more as a golden inconsistency as he sits upright, the debris sinking and then stabilizing beneath its new weight distribution.
"You are bleeding," he says, as though this is new information. He blinks, slow and cat-like. And then — he's tearing a strip of fabric from the bottom of his pants. He doesn't even remember how he got it into his hands in the next moment, but it hardly matters. He leans forward slightly, mouth a thin, pale line. "Allow me."
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He resigns himself to the ensuing debate later, setting it aside for now in favor of focusing wholly on the task at hand. This Spock - sometimes, Jim is guilty of forgetting that he’s not the same as his own, in certain respects, and this self-sacrificial streak making itself known is concerningly familiar. That it’s directed at Jim so specifically is not surprising, if predictably frustrating - and that’s not to mention the infuriating fondness that bubbles in the background of his mind, despite himself. Stubborn bastard. He’d be ever more annoyed if it weren’t so kind.
Jim wasn’t used to having someone look out for him, before Starfleet. Before the Enterprise, really, and her dynamic crew. And Spock - somehow, the Vulcan rivaled only Bones in determination on his behalf. If only he would accept the same in return when it mattered.
Spock’s reaction is worryingly slow on the uptake, and Jim’s brow knots in the middle in concern. Where Spock’s grip is loose, Jim grasps back tightly, unyielding; if Spock’s not making it up onto the debris too, then back in the water Jim commits to tumble. But he does make it, even if the whirl of limbs is more uncoordinated than not (as if that’s not worrying, that their four minute estimate is closer to two and a half, taking into account the effects of the water temperature). Spock splays out on the wood, water surging and then settling around them - Jim only spares one look to confirm they’re not too heavy for floatation before his gaze is drawn back to Spock, anxiety shining in his eyes.
The emotion does not bleed to his actions, however; Jim’s fingers wrap around Spock’s bicep, helping him to the upright position. He’s cold to the touch and not shivering, which is not a good sign, moving into stage two? Or is he past that headed for stage three - if he passes out I swear to God -
“I’m fine,” Jim says on autopilot, though it seems Spock isn’t stopping to ascertain the veracity of his claim. Spock rips the soaked fabric like it’s paper, which, alright, at least he wasn’t headed for stage three, but he still seems pretty out of it - “Spock, for fuck’s sake - ”
Jim huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, sending water every which way from the dripping ends of his hair. It’s all he can do; at least they’re both out of the water now. It’s just a scratch, it doesn’t even hurt - he’s so cold, heat won’t dry us out fast enough, might get tipped into the water again who knows -
Jim’s hand moves down, resting against Spock’s side, the steady thrumming of his heart. It’s a relief to feel it just as much as it is a practical move - Jim starts rubbing his palm over the area, creating as much friction as he can manage without being rough. Chest, neck, head, groin - pretty sure they mean heart and lungs, get circulation going -
“Here, you pertinacious bat. Ah, yes, big word from Jimbo here, bet you didn’t expect that one, eh?” He’s chattering, but it’s fine, because Jim turns obligingly, offering his cut arm to Spock. See? He can accept help; maybe it’ll set a decent precedent. Maybe.
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He opens his mouth again, tries for words as he settles more readily on the debris with Jim’s assistance.
"No," Spock says, his fingers still and firm as levies Jim's arm up into a stabler position. "When possible, you prefer to speak plainly.” It makes you accessible to the crew, relatable to the many. It pours through the spaces between them, each unfiltered pass of a hand. Spock knows he cannot maintain his shields whilst aiding in the progress of warming, but he attempts. He attempts, more for the sake of Jim’s own comfort than his own. When he was young, it had been difficult to align each piece of himself, to know which path he should walk. Caught between feeling and not, order and chaos, absolutes and uncertainties – he’d struggled to view the world that spun and twist before him. When finally given ground, he’d soon lost it. When finally committing to logical tenets, he’d soon lost the grasp of it. Sectioned, reordered, time out of time – it had taken much to build again. And yet, he did. He did, again. That anyone but himself should be expected to withstand what lays between? He can’t.
No matter how much they reach and no matter how much they give, the cycle begins again. Around and around they go, never taking no matter how much they might. Never taking, Spock thinks, how much Jim should. And so, as he winds the fabric about Jim’s arm with singular focus, he tries. He keeps out as much as he can, suffuses the burgeoning temptation of Jim’s pacing thoughts to abstract. What he gains is only surface, but the glimmer of fondness – it echoes. It resounds, fed through the heat of Jim’s palm. Up against his side, he knows the desire to stabilize. To revitalize. No matter how Jim seems to fair, his focus is…
Mister Spock, you are a stubborn man.
The water laps at the edges of their little raft. Spock remembers what he’s meant to be doing and sets to tying off the bandage, hand gentling over the knot he provides to keep it positioned. When he drops his hand, he pulls it back to his lap with the other. Knotted tight about themselves, he holds what little warmth he still has as though a flame against the winds of Vulcan’s open deserts. The feedback he receives now is duller, but it is no less potent.
“However,” Spock starts again and eventually, his voice a lower rasp. He blinks the remaining water from his eyes, rubbing the tips of his own fingers together in mirror of Jim’s insistent palm. “I've known you always to be fond of Human classics. You've read..."
Spock pauses. The heat of Jim’s skin burns as a brand against his skin, distracting for all it has purpose. His heart hums in stuttered steps against his side, as though one who leans over the safety of a parapet. He knows not where the bottom lies, but the lack of knowledge stirs in him both something welcome and lurid.
"I seem to have forgotten the precise number." Not an answer one might want to hear, but Spock knows that he knows it. It will come back to him. It will come back to him, as readily as his own control. He catches himself in the midst of leaning into a firmer pass of Jim’s palm, something dark and sour balling in the pit of his stomach. He takes a breath; thinks instead of the way he’d grown to often visit his Captain in the evening hours. Each time, if Jim was freed from the confines of paperwork, Spock would find a book in his grip. He would find that, while most times Spock was familiar with the contents, sometimes — Spock glances at Jim. For all that Jim frets about his wellbeing in this moment, Spock ensures that someone keeps an eye on Jim’s.
Who else would, he wonders, if not him?
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“I take it you approve, given your penchant for efficiency.” Jim feels Spock’s flesh slowly begin to warm beneath his hand; it’s too much to hope that the green tinge will start to fade from Spock’s countenance, but hope valiently he does, regardless. There is so much to consider - too much, his mind spinning off in so many different directions - and it’s then that Jim once again realizes how uncomfortable it must be for Spock. Whoever had designed this challenge had certainly not been setting out to make it easy.
The top of the tower must hold something of import, or so he hopes.
Spock wraps his arm with unnecessary (in Jim’s opinion) care, and though Jim tries in vain to quiet racing thoughts, there’s little to be done about rampant emotionalism. At least there is no fear - just the quiet hum of anxiety, interlaced with adrenalinecoldfondexasperation. The trails of his blood disappear beneath the makeshift bandage, pinkish water diluting and then fading away completely as it rolls down his skin. It’s good Spock’s not bleeding, for a whole host of reasons - not least of which is the lack of available material on Jim’s person to fashion him a bandage, and humor enters the mix, dark though it may be.
The stutter is sliding quickly into the not a good sign category, but Jim takes it in stride, insofar as he can - though he can’t help but ponder over the rules from their tablet. Depending on the win conditions, even death could earn you a victory. That is not how Jim wants to earn a victory, no way, no how. And maybe death is dramatic, here, but a glance at the water still sets him wondering. Regardless, Jim’s not prime to letting Spock suffer. “Glad to know I’m a bookworm in every universe. Bones used to call me a stack of books on legs at the Academy, actually.”
“Don’t worry your Vulcan cranium about it, I can’t keep track either.” Jim thinks he sounded impressively offhand there, despite the concern leeching through. He smiles, a flash of confident, white teeth, so used to belying nerves it’s second nature. “I love paper books. Something about them, maybe the feeling of them? Have a little collection going, back home. Hey, I heard there’s a library here - we should go. Make an afternoon of it. I’ll buy you lunch, Commander, sweeten the pot.”
They deserve it, a break from challenges and escape prep. Jim takes his own deep, calming breath, letting it settle over his shoulders like a second skin. Okay, they’d made it. The crisis was far from over, but at least they’d made it (relatively) unscathed.
“We need to warm you up before we figure out how to get up there.” A cursory search of the environment makes it clear to Jim that there is not going to be easy; a platform above them, easily several hundred feet in the air. A problem for a moment from now, preferably when his Vulcan is back in thinking condition. Jim removes his hand from Spock’s side, peering at him seriously. “The best way I can figure to do that is to hug you, but I’m open to ideas. How are you doing?”
It’s not like he has anything else at his disposal to assist in the matter, given their state of dress and the room around them. No other useful debris has surfaced; it’s all flotsam and jetsam, yes, but nothing fabric. Even if there were, it’d be freezing and soaking wet; at least Jim’s skin is warm? Still, silly though it may sound, Jim’s aware of what that might do, and though he’s not fully apprised of the extent of Spock’s fraying control, he can take a pretty educated guess that it’s all a bit much, right now.
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And so, it is that that drives him too to study what manners of “out” that they have. There is chance still to forfeit, but he knows they are both too stubborn for it. The end might hold some crucial information. There is the possibility to free and be freed. Both. No matter how sluggish the process, he focuses on keeping them both afloat and alive. The walls are too high to climb. The waters are too dark and cold to survive. But, perhaps, there is a condition—
Jim prattles on about this and that, pulls Spock’s wandering mind what is here and present. Jim’s hand still rubs against his side, still brings with it the challenge to not lean into, but he knows it is nervousness. He has seen it before, on away missions. He has seen it in the ready room, in the med bay. He has seen it in the minutes before anyone might retrieve them, blood green as the grasses that live in the Terran heartlands smeared across the red break of hands, his heart, his wrists. Hazel and blue and hazel again, the eyes are the same. There is no difference, in the end.
“Naturally,” Spock tells him, his dark head tipped just so to view despite their perilous proximity. In all universes, in all times, Spock has always known him to be sharp and full of wit. He has known him to be the only Human to ever best him in chess. Spock has known him, in some ways, as he has known himself.
“I find these terms acceptable.” A minor pause. He means the books, the visiting of the library. He knows where it is situated, has been there several times before. It comes across in the fanning of pages, the momentary glimmer of brick and marble. A façade, both alike and unlike his own. “Though, perhaps it’s best to first examine Aldrip’s current options.”
A distraction, more for Jim. Jim, who has innumerable allergies. Jim, whom he watches closely, for any means or mode of reaction. He knows such shock can come on quickly, even more so in some Humans. Jim has always dealt with it. But, sometimes—sometimes, Spock remembered for him. Caught it for him.
“Jim,” he murmurs, eyes still and dark and quiet. He turns his head, gaze fixing upon the fathomless waters that churn beneath them. The sun of Jim’s attention is too much to meet, too much to soak in. It makes a mess of all that is vacant and abandoned in him, the loneliness that lives between the slats of his ribs. If he were to cave to it now, if he were to let it settle into the places between the marrow and soul, there would be no letting it go. There would be no uprooting it. He listens to the thrum of his own heart in his ears, to the way it both settles and skips, and knows it is not Jim’s burden to share. It is not his to grapple with, to answer it with mercy it neither deserves nor permits. All along his side, Jim’s hand is a weight as much as it is a secreted comfort. He cannot possibly ask of him—
“My controls are… Compromised.” His fingers twist in his lap, the cut and valley of his knuckles whitening under the movement. For all that Jim’s fondness and irritation and exasperation and fear strike against his skin, pluck across his nerves as though some sacred score, Spock knows his own limitations. He knows the cowardice that roils up in him, that bites against the delicate flesh of lungs and makes tight the walls of his stomach. He knows what Jim values in him, as much as he knows too what Spock values in him. For that, because of that, how might Spock ask for anything more?
“I will not be able to maintain adequate shielding, if I am to focus upon my physical state.” I’m sorry, he does not say. But, need he? The sentiment is carried in the dip of his shoulders, the downward tuck of his chin. It wears the face of shame, perhaps, but it is not less difficult to decipher. Spock heaves a breath, the heat of his own blood beginning to return in crawling increments to the most vital parts of him. “I do not wish to cause you discomfort.” I’m sorry, that you worry for me like this .
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"It's a date." The words slip out before Jim can think better of them, but the situation is too dire to linger on his terminal foot-in-mouth syndrome for long. It does sound nice, though - jeez, when was the last time Jim actually had shore leave? They've been in deep space for so long, the endless enormity of the cosmos spread before them, and then - he was here, and they were working tirelessly, eyes blurring in front of his computer station or fingers aching from handling delicate components. The only reason Jim really took breaks at all was to deal with Bones. And now this, this damned tower.
Yeah, they could do with a day off.
"What, you don't like bootleg indoor whitewater rafting?" Jim snorts, pressing his knuckles down onto the wood of their floating debris. It doesn't hurt, necessarily, but it does ground him in the moment - he's fine, he barely even drowned a little, but he knows how to ride adrenaline surges with the best of them. Knows how easily someone can crash from them, but he's fine. Really. Surely. He's not doing any worse than Spock, at least, and one of them has to be closer to optimal, or they're screwed.
But the way Spock says his name, his first name, so softly, immediately makes Jim's focus ten times more intense. For all that Spock doesn't emote - not in the typical ways, not unless you're well-versed in minute Vulcan facial expressions the way Jim is (his defense is that he stares at the guy's face any given number of waking hours
why are you staring, Jim. Jim. Jim why are you staring.) - but for all that he doesn't emote, his body language does. The bundle of tension between his shoulderblades, the way his hands tangle together - Jim has seen Spock hold his composure many ways, but this is different. Something in Jim softens, achingly gentle, and he's glad he'd thought to remove his hand from Spock's side only moments before, so he doesn't have to feel it so acutely through Jim's own mind."Spock," Jim echoes back to him quietly, and the softness is evident in clear blue eyes - not pity, never pity, but the full force of Jim's empathy, unleashed. "You - "
Jim pauses for a moment, re-ordering how best to convey his sentiments, taking into consideration all the outlying factors. The unspoken apology they can both hear, the discomfiture that always surrounds addressing emotions so directly - not when Jim does it, when his humanity so frequently slips free of his control, but when Spock is the one compromised - the ignominy of it, even when it's just the two of them, even though Spock already knows there's nothing to apologize for.
But saying any of that would only make it worse, as Jim is well aware.
"You will always have my full confidence." Jim says instead, slowly, pressing upon how resolute he is in this regard. "Always and completely, Spock. And I know you would never abuse it. So I want you to hear me and understand, that? That will never cause me discomfort."
He can't rightly say it wouldn't cause Spock malaise, but for Jim? He would - and does - give the whole of himself, freely, knowingly. For the sake of his friend, Jim would give his life - everything else is just gravy.
"Please," Jim reaches out deliberately, settling a warm hand on Spock's shoulder, actually trying to focus this time. The thrum of trustwarmthfaithfriendship pulses at the forefront of his mind, as he tries his best to push out everything else. "Never allow yourself to labor under the impression that it would."
That Jim would ever turn away from Spock for what he is, for what he cannot control? That Jim would not take him as he is, every time, for all time? Preposterous.
"I have an idea, actually." Words that sometimes precipitate disaster, but Jim's not making any sudden moves to dive off their sanctuary into the churning water, so small blessings it is. He turns to lay on his side, the debris rocking slightly at the shift in body weight, raising an arm in clear invitation.
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The concept is an oddity. Experience without expectation, the stretch of the day lazy and filled with meandering purpose. He had never allowed himself to explore such things in earnest, mind alight with the possibilities that linger beyond and before him. He had never earned keep in the places that raised him, in the spaces that were bent to fit his impossible edges. He had never once known what it was, to feel as though “belonging” was a possibility. How might something upon the outskirts know the truth of a fire? How might they know, too, what it was to be warm?
Progress is slow. Time extends, loops about itself. And yet, no matter where it is that Spock goes, there is always this constant: an easy back-and-forth, an extension of a hand. A person who, beyond even himself, he might know and see the truth of. A steady light, where his does not seem to burn to begin.
The way Jim pulls him toward later, toward something else— he knows it for what it is. It’s a promise. A reassurance. Spock grants it, knowing that there will be in some manner or another. He grants it, more with the minute raise of a brow, the smoothing of the furrow that makes itself known beneath the blunt edge of his fringe. As always, as ever, Jim knows when to press, where to skirt the enormity of what Spock cannot say.
But, were he able to, what might he do with it? asks a quieter part of himself. What would he do with it, if given it hand over fist? All that is weak and dark and wounded, poured into the grip that welcomes him. Does he know what it is he is asking of him? Does he know what it is he lures to the surface with the surety of self, the surety of self that even Spock does not possess? The war that he carries on, the precarious balance – the exhaustion, of knowing what is true and what is reflection? His nails dig crescents into the skin. In the valleys between fingers, in the delicate webbing, what whitens cuts copper and olive. It does not hurt, not truly. It grounds.
You’ll always be cold and distant. Inevitably, eventually, Spock’s eyes find Jim’s. Like a moon somewhere. And eventually, inevitably, Spock takes him in.
Sincerity had once been a friend to him. Warmth, a companion. As with all that grows and presses against the boundaries of existence, he had come to learn what it was to be questioned. He had learned what it was he might have expected, piecemealed from the mouths who would see him instead as abomination. He had known what it was to love, to be loved. He had known, acutely, how it was to lose it. Family, a place of belonging, a sense of what comprised him – was it truly within the realm of surprise? He’d once felt ashamed to have grown so close to Jim so quickly. He had once felt ashamed, to hope such importance was felt in duplicate. And now, when Jim holds out such firm and unshakeable belief in the person before him, how can it surprise that Spock views it first as a knife? How can it surprise, when not struck soon after with both the weight of disappointment and the cast of despair, that something in him shifts? Hungry and heedless, it winds about his ribs somewhere. It climbs, no matter how ruthless his attempts to ignore it. It quiets, when Jim’s hand leaves the curve of his shoulder. It reaches, when Jim settles back.
“I once told you,” Spock starts, soft and sudden, “that you almost make me believe in luck.”
Their little raft rocks, sways under the movement of Jim’s body. Now, it too is disturbed under the movement of his. Jim had made it seem so simple, so obvious. And Spock, too, had known it. But, posed to him now and under such confidence, how might he ignore it? The offer is logical, practical. It is not without merit. And yet, because he is as he is, there are no ideal means to exercise it. Not as they are. Not at present.
But, for all Jim trusts him—
It is awkward, as it always is, attempting to fit into spaces that one believes are not theirs. It is a frisson of uncertainty, a scintilla of distrust. But, as Spock somehow manages to keep them afloat as he settles beneath the stretch of a golden arm, he finds it somehow isn’t. Close enough that he might feel the heat of an exhalation against the back of his neck, he finds himself unable to recall the last time he’d allowed himself any such closeness. Be it for necessity or otherwise, his mind cannot draw up a time before now that he’d not felt the thrum of failure, had felt the weight of missed expectations. Neither Human nor Vulcan, he’d learned not to want what could not be given. He’d learned what it was to take what was provided, to live with the paths he had chosen. He closes his eyes and thinks of hillsides, of ancient stone and bark. He thinks of the world, turned upside-down. He thinks of it righted, with great patience and persistence. He thinks of the sound of the wind, the grasses grown golden and long. He thinks of fields, freshly tilled. He thinks of all he has seen and has not seen, the impermanent slant of the sun.
“I had never thought it fair, to attribute your successes to it.” Not when, he does not say, I am witness to what you grapple with, to what you face to earn the loyalty of those who would serve you. But, he needn’t. He shouldn’t. His words are too lost upon his own tongue, cut over his teeth. Born anew, in ways that are both careful and precise, as he too must always remain. “You win them by your own merit. You still do.”
The water still washes up over the sides. Spock knows it to be settling, inertia still carrying what lingers beneath the surface.
“You must tell me,” he says after a long moment, “If it becomes too much.”
Trust. His own trust. Extended back to him. It is easier to speak, when his face is turned from Jim. It is easier to process, with his hands held still against his own chest. It is easier to remember what it is he must be doing.
Like this, he turns his own thoughts and energies toward the regulation of his own body – his own blood. He does it not only for himself, but for Jim. After all, he reminds himself, after all, against the continual press of tides and the enduring chill, it will bring Jim stability too.
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But with Spock, it's. Different. It's always easier to ignore the wandering ruminations that tend to plague him when in the company of others, but with Spock - sometimes, it's as though Jim forgets they exist completely. No longer looming over his shoulder, he is free to just simply...be. He's never voiced this to anyone, of course, because he can hear that rude, sneering voice that belongs to no one and everyone already: More comfortable with a Vulcan? What are you repressing that badly?
But it's - not so. Spock is brilliant and sharp and witty; he makes Jim laugh, the kind of laugh you forget is possible until it explodes out of you unexpectedly, unbidden. He's kind, and fiercely compassionate, if one knows where that compassion hides itself: in the gentle tip of his head, the secreted curve of his lip, the practiced, careful motions of his hands.
While Jim knows he holds Spock's friendship (is lucky to), it's too much, and too silly, to think that Spock could feel precisely the same sense of ease in his own presence (because when has his presence ever been a balm?), but Jim appreciates it on his own terms, nonetheless.
So in the rare instances when Spock shows him the merest of glimpses beneath the outer layer, the tiniest of chinks in the armor he wears so wholly and completely, Jim knows better than to poke at it. He has no desire to chip away at the soft thing that lurks beneath; as much as he teases and jests, it's never been with malice. Instead, he simply cups his hands, and waits. Waits to catch him, promises unerringly that always that he will, should his friend ever crack and fall.
He never does. Still, Jim promises anyway.
He's not sure what would happen, if that day ever comes; and Jim doesn't bother to speculate. In any scenario, however, Jim cannot think of anything that would make him turn away, anything that he would not grasp with both hands before it hit the ground. It's an impossibility.
Spock turns to settle after a moment, Jim watching him patiently, meeting his dark gaze with the same firmness with which he suggested the solution in the first place. Hands extended, poised to catch, though Spock never stumbles. Jim would be remiss if he didn't, and when it comes to Spock, that's one thing he endeavors never to be. He's careful to try and keep his thoughts as clear as they can be as Spock tucks up against him, brushing his bare skin in several places. Jim is prone to forgetting himself, on occasion; a hand on Spock's shoulder here, a nudge with his elbow there. There's always clothing between them to dampen the effect of his transgressions. Here, after the discussion they just had, it's impossible for Jim to be unaware.
Still, he tries to keep the embarrassing pleased feeling out of his mind at Spock's words, settling his arm carefully around Spock's midsection. His hand flattens against Spock's side, over his heart, feeling the lively vibration under his palm. "Why, Mr. Spock, you say the sweetest things."
His tone is gentle, the tenor of his thoughts clear where they sizzle against the points of contact; a tacit acceptance, an appreciation. He need not embarrass Spock with further declarations; what's happening right now is surely enough to do that on its own. Jim's hand soothes against Spock's side, resuming the warming motion from before, slow circles over his heart. "I will. And you, Spock. Please. I won't be offended."
And then Jim scoots forward, and presses the whole of his chest against Spock's back, drawing him in firmly.
Jim's plan takes a moment to make itself immediately apparent, the chaos of his mind and emotions swelling, as is only normal. Pushing them down has never had any efficacy, so Jim takes a deep breath, warm air exhaled slowly against the back of Spock's neck, and tries a different approach.
coldsprayofwater - trustworryisheokay - determinationwarmthfond - Can't just tell yourself not to think of a pink elephant -
His thoughts reorder, resolve settling over him, another puff of warm breath against Spock's cool skin.
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,
The poem rises in Jim's mind with clarity of focus; he's clearly committing himself to remembering it, and not shying away from the memories and feelings that surface when he does. Giving into them makes it easier, at least in Jim's opinion; it's easier to filter out the swirl of chaos and conflict, to keep calm. Not blank - that is beyond him, as they're both well aware - but calm, perhaps, he can do.
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
The warmth of sunlight, pouring in through the window while he flips through brittle pages. The Yale Shakespeare, the set of completed works, Jim devouring them fervently. Easy to tune out the yelling downstairs, easy to find comfort and joy in the poems and plays - love, heartbreak, anger, everything. The one he has memorized is his favorite, one he returned to again and again.
Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
The words taste good in his mouth, ripened sweet just like the fruit he bites into; lazy days beneath the apple tree, the summer haze leaving him untouched in the cool of the shadows. The book is worn, creased from use, but he is 13 and does not understand he should be careful; he carries the unbelievably thick tome with him most days, his name scrawled carelessly on the inside cover.
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.
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Himself, the Captain - how many times had they avoided the possibility leave? How many times had Spock had to remind him of his body's limitations? Even Jim, so sturdy and determined as he is, still required rest. He still, as Spock most often ensured, required nourishment.
And yet, was he not just as stubborn? Was he not just as reluctant? How many times had Jim insisted he eat with him? How many times had the Captain invited him to his quarters for chess?
"Statements cannot carry gustatory elements, Captain,” Spock says, tone lighter on the tongue than it is in the mouth. It takes considerable efforts to field the flood, to answer beneath the hand that had for so long accepted those who reached for it. For all that Spock might filter, there is sentiment that remains. Dark earth to rain, gold in the grit of sediment – Jim’s thoughts and emotions alight against the curious, blind things that rest beneath his skin. It Takeshi time, to quiet them. It takes concentration, to lead them from what they might only perceive as potential, as prospect. They are not Spock's to know, not Spock's interpret. He settles, centers. The water roils and laps. “Furthermore, preliminary evidence suggests that most would find my words quite unpalatable.”
Easy openings, easy conversational paths. Easy, he thinks, to remember a time before he might have accepted what it is that Jim means. What it was, he knows now, Jim always meant. For all the ways that they spar, for all the ways that they differ - there is no disquiet in him. This is Jim, he knows. This is Jim, whom he advises. Who advises him. If there is anything that Spock might know with certainty, it is that Jim has earned such loyalty. And Jim, too, has earned his.
Life upon a starship is seldom without hazard. He knows as well as Jim does that situations may crumble and dynamics may shift, but Spock has never once sought another position. He has never once considered an alternative, a charge he might call his. He does not want it, he thinks. He knows what solidity, competency, and efficiency define - and he knows it is not him. Not as captain. No, he knows, those ranks do not belong to him. He knows, as surely as the words and images that move in piecemeal across the boundary of what is himself and what is Jim.
“One-oh-four,” Spock recites without much thought, soft and faithful and sure. His skin burns with each point of contact, but it does not injure. It does not bring him harm. He focuses on the weight of Jim’s palm, the callouses both familiar and new. His heart thrums, rabbit-quick and restless, and recalls a time that such a revelation of placement had brought some alarm. He recalls, too, the moments that it had brought others relief. He shivers, the sense of cold beginning to return. He tamps down upon it, knowing it to be a sign of lessening degrees of hypothermia, but surely - he holds himself a burgeoning calm. A minor balm to residual worry he defines as not his own. He feels the fold of paper beneath fingertips, the summer of its tooth and wear.
He considers, the equilibrium of his body slowly returning.
"It is the star to every wand’ring bark. Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken."
A trade, perhaps. A response.
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When they're not jumping off cliffs together, that is. Somewhere, Bones was rolling in his early grave.
"I'm going to have to beg to differ, there." Jim teases right back at him, helping the tone to shift to something lighter, unburdened, despite the truths they'd so neatly danced around moments ago. His subsequent response is low, murmured rhetorically; perhaps too low for another human to hear, something he might presume to be lost against the back of Spock's neck, if not for Spock's superior hearing range. "...Guess I'm the outlier that shouldn't be counted, hm?"
Jim commits himself fully to the task at hand, trying his best to stay on target. It's hard not to let his thoughts slip to the thousand other things they need to worry about - is it working, is Spock warming up? Will the water currents kick up a fuss and dump them right back in? How are they supposed to get up to the next platform? But he tries his best, taking it as a good sign when Spock shivers against him. He's also resolute in not letting this get awkward, as it so easily could if he were to let his mind wander towards - focus, focus, do not pass GO do not collect 200 credits -
Spock recognizes the sonnet, which is no surprise, and Jim smiles, closing his eyes to keep his concentration. His hand continues the slow circle, feeling Spock's pulse jump beneath his ministrations - a good sign, surely, that lifeblood was returning, flooding warm to everywhere it was sorely needed. Spock's skin is cool where they're pressed together, and Jim's definitely not thinking about the fact that this is the first time he's ever hugged Spock, and he definitely never thought they'd do such a thing shirtless - he's not thinking about it, see, he's FOCUSED - Spock offers another bit of poetry in return, one that blooms in Jim's mind even as he draws up the subsequent line:
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come.
A sandy-headed child, crunching grass underfoot, jumping around his brother on their way to school, the trek into town from the farmhouse. Sam, brushing him off even as Jim batted his eyes and recited poetry to him, laughing all the way. Why do you bother with that stuff, Jimmy?
Girls like it, duh. Jim had replied, but that wasn't true at all, he liked it. Liked the cadences, liked the endless flow the words possessed. Was drawn in by the promise of love, of unshakeable acceptance; the sweetness and the ache of it, even as, or perhaps especially as, a child -
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
He doesn't wonder what Spock sees in the poems, how he interprets them; he doesn't speculate, see, look at him not speculating? I wonder if - Because that would be rude, even though his brain is like a train he's never been in control of, veering towards whatever topic it so chooses.
They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Jim presses his forehead into Spock's shoulder, exhaling slowly, hand still sweeping against his side. Cuddling him and reciting Shakespeare, an activity Jim had certainly considered before, back when he was young to the world and romantic that way (but not necessarily with his First Officer) - it would be funny, if Spock weren't so cold. Maybe it would be funny in a day or two. Bones wasn't even here to laugh at him, though. Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
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"Your considerations shall always be counted," Spock says, softer than he ought and softer than most should ever muster. The jest drawn is not jest at all and Spock has known of it. He has played with words in such fashions, drawn them about his fingertips to imply instead of lie, to exaggerate where he required obfuscation. That Jim weaves language in the same manner does not surprise him. He has encountered it times innumerable but had so rarely been upon the receiving end of it. Why it is he garners it now is not without mystery, but still Spock feels oddly compelled to curtail it. As he opens his mouth again, thinking perhaps to append further declarations, he finds himself beginning to shiver in earnest.
He tells himself that it is simply part of the process, that (typically) autonomic movements are essential to temperature regulation and detail a safer baseline, but it starts from the back of his neck. It notches along his spine, works down to the soles of his feet. The ribs beneath Jim’s hand rise, the next exhalation hitching on reflex. It takes much of the controls he has left to rein it, to contain it, but he manages. He manages, just as Jim manages to settle the tidal quality of his own thoughts, golden grain and golden skin. He sees for a moment himself as Jim, seedlings taken root. Sam. Against the back of his eyelids, the jab mirrors those found in many Human dynamics. He knows, innately in the ways that someone who has served so closely to him, that Jim had grown to favor the poetry for what it represented. He knows that Jim—
His own recollections settle and overlay, side-by-side. Snippets of what Jim gives him, matched with the quiet of a child tucked in his father’s estate. Dark haired and dark eyed, he turns the book over in his palms and tries to view the title without disruption. He can almost get it right, can almost structure the letters in ways that make sense to him. He moves his mouth, contemplative and soundless, and then:
“Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,” he recites, his voice held against the way a wary warmth blooms across the bank of his shoulder, in the spaces between what is Spock and what is his Captain, “As with your shadow I with these did play.”
He knows, before he knows, that he should move. He knows he should inform Jim that they are likely to be successful in the endeavor to warm him momentarily, that they should look for a means to escape their current predicament. He thinks he should open his eyes, stir beneath the hand that keeps him still without true weight or power behind it. He thinks, but then—Jim rests his forehead against him. His movements are easy, untroubled. He wonders, as Spock wonders, when was the last time anyone might have touched him in such a way. His mother, perhaps. Held as a child. Kept safe in the cradle of her arms. A former lover. Temporary, momentary, fleeting—
There is no expectation. Not here. Jim does not hold out for more than what Spock might give him and Spock, too, does not demand anything more. It is just them. Necessity or not, it is just this.
And, in the next moment, it is the rumbling overhead. A tired sounding ding of antiquated electronic confirmation. If Spock is suddenly ensuring that Jim remains close by as their little raft begins to heave steadily upward? Well, it’s an easy tell. He snakes a hand back, far steadier than before, and settles it over the fabric that he’d dutifully tied over the injury that Jim had endured. Where he lays it shouldn’t touch it directly, but even so.
Even so—
Where are they next unceremoniously dumped? Well, at least it will register as dry.
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.
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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.
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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.
hang on spider monkey.............................
you'll be billed for the psychic damage this email gave me
the penalty of knowing me is high, etc.
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