“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.
Edited 2024-05-27 19:07 (UTC)
hang on spider monkey.............................
"Indeed," Spock says, pointedly reminding himself of the situation they continue to be in. He wonders the benefits of mentioning to Jim that such limited range of motion exercises is only liable to alleviate his stiffness temporarily, but such a conversation can be had at another time. He had once and before gone over the applications of neuro-pressure and how one might do so to themselves "in a pinch," which had gotten quite the reaction from his own Captain, but.
Spock would rather not think of the sands. He would also rather not think of the last time he'd experienced such environs with Jim. He would also rather not take any further notice of the fact that Jim's flexibility seems to favor one side, though the percentage is largely inconsequential. He wonders if old injuries have too plagued this particular Jim, if there was a reason that — Spock turns his head. He continues his pursuit of wringing out the remaining water, rising to his feet after a beat of contemplation.
"To your previous claim," Spock starts again, shaking out out his hair. It is not the most dignified of gestures, but it serves its purposes. His skin still tingles with an unfortunate sensitivity, which he anticipates is likely to compound if his speculations stand. "I do not believe Matthew knew of the Greek's Poseidon, though—"
He knows he's missing some reference, but it hardly matters now. The tone immediately shifts, the focus upon the sudden realization that their trial again starts now and no amount of stubbornness will enable any further exchanges. Spock immediately lets his gaze sweep from Jim to the gradual erosion to the rockface again, patterning out what prospects they have. Spock only needs a moment to know which path would be best, to retain it. He can see it, an intangible and wavering line from end-to-end.
"You cannot stay, Jim."
It tumbles over his lips, tips across the edge of his canines. It catches as though stone underfoot and the high slant of the sun, an outburst as much as Spock might ever have. For all that he might cry logic, the decision is a marriage of both his birthrights. It comes to him as clearly as Jim's tight expression, the flint in his blue eyes.
Spock circles about to his side, focused and fixed. As though a le-matya on the scent of some wounded, there will be no swaying him. At least, not in this moment.
"While an inelegant solution, my superior strength and endurance makes our choice apparent." And yet, as unyielding as the look he answers with is, the warm light of the chamber makes his eyes look softer somehow. It makes the rich brown of them look Human.
But, as soon as it arrives it also vanishes. He is as dutiful to Jim as he is merciless to all that would impede them. Pain, discomfort — he severs the ability to pay mind to them. As long as logic remains, as long as his controls are only just retained — these are all things to be considered later. He needn't feel it. Not now.
As the next section drops out from the platform and tumbles into the interior sea, he arrives upon any final calculations. The probability of success was high enough that the risk was acceptable. And if should Jim demand them? Spock has them as always at the forefront. He's done it many times before. He will do it as many times as he needs to.
"I shall carry you."
Out of all that may be sacrificed, Jim is hardly the most expendable component. No, Spock thinks, it has always been himself. Always. If Spock must go on, then Jim must too.
It was the only solution.
Edited 2024-05-28 00:21 (UTC)
you'll be billed for the psychic damage this email gave me
Jim's Spock has yet to impart that nugget of knowledge, if it's something he's even cognizant of - to be fair, Jim wouldn't know anything about his Spock's brand of calisthenics. It's not something they talk about any more than necessary, tacitly sidestepping the damage Khan had wrought to Jim's body (damage this Spock is clocking, in the way Jim holds himself, the way his non-dominant side is weaker than the other in a tangible way.) Regardless, Jim knows it's a...sensitive topic, and something about it with Spock always seems oddly charged - so they just don't touch it with a ten foot pole, the same way Jim avoids bringing up Jocelyn with Bones, unless Bones is the one to broach the topic first.
Jim buries his hands in the sand, letting the warmth cover them, even as Spock shakes his hair and sends water droplets every which way. It's as undignified as it is charming, in a way, and Jim can't help the funny little smile that pulls at his lips as Spock starts in on untangling his references. Their battle of wits is cut short, and Jim abandons any possible responses to Spock's aborted sentence, turning towards him as he, predictably, starts to argue instead.
That Spock calls him Jim instead of Captain surprises him, however, stopping his rebuts in their tracks, if only for a moment. Jim blinks, processing the tone for a beat as Spock approaches, hovering firm at his shoulder. It's about as close to impassioned as Jim could expect from his Vulcan Commander; and a far cry from his stoic "Let me drown Captain, don't worry about it, it's no trouble," bullshit from twenty minutes ago. Even if Jim will be fine in the water, stubborn bastard. Jim can't even be anything other than fondly exasperated about it, though, not after his insistence on an adamant no man left behind policy.
And of course, Spock's suggestion gets another doubletake - first surprise, then mild incredulity. Jim meets his gaze with evaluation couched in concern; he almost has to look away at the warm ocher color that makes itself known in Spock's iris, a reflection from the sand, surely - instead, he uses it as an excuse to take in the whole of him, looking for any signs of green tinge to his skin. "Spock - are you sure you're in a fit state?"
'Operating near normal capacity' wasn't exactly 'Ready to carry 190 pounds of human 30 feet up a sheer rockface'. Moreover, Jim's attention turns from Spock to the wall again, zeroing in on the holds carved distant from each other, then back to Spock. "I'd put you off balance, and that kind of a climb needs flexibility in range of motion. It might not be possible anyway, I feel like you'd need to be an octopus with eight - "
Jim cuts himself off suddenly, clearly working through an idea that lights him up as soon as it's uncovered. "Have you ever been camping, Spock?"
Jim approaches the wall without further comment, stretching the wingspan of his arms across the divide. Two sides to climb up, ostensibly, but the gap in the middle - he can touch both sides with his fingertips when standing between them. He turns around with a determined grin, beckoning Spock over. The room seemed determined to pit them against one another, but teamwork makes the dream work, as they say. "There's a technique I think we can...repurpose for our current needs."
The poorly-concealed amusement is evident in Jim's expression, but at least his eyes are alight with mirth and no longer abject worry.
He might do it, he thinks. He could do it, if the situation continued to call for it. His body knows itself, as much as he might know it. He knows what it has before endured, what it might still yet. But, there are times where such qualifiers need not apply. There are times where might becomes must, could becomes would. There are times, like these ones, where Spock gauges correctly no matter the physical cost.
It is that determination and certainty that buoys him forth, that brings him to rest as his side as though an anchor. What hypocrisies he engages in and does not? It does not matter. It is illogical to dwell upon a double-standard when the value of the other party is far more evident than his own. And it is so, despite the look that Jim casts him. It is not distrust, he knows. It is consideration. It is a hope for another alternative, when one may not be present. Still, the defense rises readily to his tongue, the probabilities and percentages available to him as they so often are. They are as accurate as they might be in this scenario. And this scenario?
Unquestionably, he nearly says. There is no conclusion without a first attempt. But, the words are devoured by the rumbling behind them. They are ensnared by the sudden spark of inspiration that flares up in Jim, the frenetic motion of his mind moving them further in. Spock follows, willing to hear the argument. They have time. They have time enough yet.
"Not as such," Spock says, settling as though a shadow would alongside him. He believes he knows what it is Jim may be suggesting, knowing that his love of free climbing, but there are times. There are times, further and further between, that Spock cannot yet discern the conclusion before Jim approaches it. "Though you have waxed on most expansively about such activities before."
He casts a discerning eye over the spaces afforded, the angle and cut of the rock. There are few solutions he might come to, but there is something to be said of making a wedge of forms. If one gains the appropriate traction and balances external force - it is not ideal, given the way his body still burns with the excess stimulus, but it is better than what might be. Could be.
The math works out right.
He arches a brow, raises with it the remnants of his shields. They will hold just enough. He will make them. He takes a breath, meets Jim's eyes. He squares himself internally, mirrors from Jim the sturdiness of his form. The certainty.
"A tribute to your eight-legged Terran mollusk, I presume?"
Oh, Jim's well aware of the percentages and COUGH - bullshit - COUGH that Spock likes to stack behind his 'logical' deductions. That he is always so prone to this self-sacrificial streak - well, Jim's not buying what he's selling, he never has. He trained it (mostly) out of his Spock, and Jim'll be damned if he doesn't train it out of this one, too. The needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few in some scenarios, well, he could accept that - he had accepted that, when he took a risk he would never allow men under his command to take - but when there was a way, any other way? Absolutely not.
Regardless, Spock's premise is faulty, though he has not given voice to it (probably because he knows.) No one life was worth more than any other, fullstop. Even if one did engage in that kind of thinking - there's no one who would agree with Jim being worth more than Spock, by any metric. No one.
If Spock were here, and I were there, what would he do?
"Oh, we've definitely got to rectify that when we get out of here," Jim grins, all teeth, and resist the urge to bump his shoulder against Spock's - they're not wearing the protective layer of their uniforms to make the gesture friendly and not an imposition. "You'll like it. Bring your sample kit and you'll have a blast."
Spock gets to fondle plants, Jim can roast marshmallows. Wins all around. It's a pleasant distraction from the climb in front of them, but not one Jim can indulge for long; another piece of the platform falls away with a distant splash in the water below, and he squares his shoulders with determination.
"Something like that." Jim's amusement holds, even as he steps between the ridge, turning so he's facing right, the left half empty - he won't be able to stretch across both on his own. "You're familiar with how the puborectalis muscle functions, I take it."
Jim gestures behind himself, committing to a half squat in demonstration; he's pretty sure Spock will pick up his point, camping experience or not. "If we stand back to back, I think we'll be able to brace and use each other for leverage."
Something about the Terran idiom of pots and kettles should spring to mind here. Even so, Spock will always balance the benefit of all against the benefit of one. If it is between himself and Jim, then it is Jim that he should endeavor to let the universe keep. And if they might come upon an equilibrium, if it is possible that neither should be left behind? Well, that should be an ideal scenario indeed. All that aside: Jim might yet rattle the self-sacrificial tendencies from this Spock. Just as Spock may yet confirm for this Jim that his importance is paramount.
And thus, they reach such an impasse: that is one statement that would never sway this or that or another Spock. If he himself was so important, he should think, then why is Jim not? And he supposes this is why Jim spins about in his usual and chaotic thoughts. That he strikes upon an interesting compromise and course is no surprise to Spock. This is what makes him the Captain, after all.
Spock has no doubt he needn't remind Jim that his condition (as well as Jim's) is not stellar at the moment. Even so, he takes to Jim's suggestion without further thought. The sooner they might scale this obstacle, perhaps, the sooner they might clear this room. And, if there is a particular sort of mercy that the tower might show them, come upon a change of clothing.
"An inelegant solution, but a practical one."
Spock assesses the modeled position for no longer than he has to, eyes flicking up and away to focus upon the grain of the rock. He clears his throat, heart thudding away against his side. He reminds himself of what Jim has told upon the raft in the lower half of the room (he'd tell him, he'd left him know).
"As you wish," he says, the syllables rounded with the usual amount of capitulation. It is no hardship to answer that whim, but time is running out. "I believe the saying goes: 'on your mark.'"
He makes himself as pliant as he ought, settles with his back against Jim's.
Jim could list a hundred reasons, a thousand, why Spock's survival was necessary, why it was right and the absence of it would be so, so wrong, but in truth, he only needed one. No others would ever surpass the painfully sincere fact at the heart of his obstinacy, pots and kettles be damned: Spock was one of his greatest friends, and Jim could not conceive of a world without him.
More importantly, he would not want to.
Perhaps it's selfish, in the way that caring for someone can be, sometimes - but it's no secret that Spock would outlive all of them, and Jim, admittedly, takes some amount of comfort in knowing that. There's no guarantee, of course, now that his universe is out of sync with the one this Spock hails from - but if there's anything Jim hopes remains a constant, well, his answer should come as no surprise.
"Work smarter, not harder." It's the only idea he's got, and while he's open to suggestions, they'll be pushing it on time soon enough. Spock acquiesces to the idea, which means he's determined it's likely (enough) to succeed - whether it's still post-hypothermic delusion or not, Jim will take the wins where he can get them.
Spock assumes the position behind him, and Jim links their arms together, leaning back to brace them against one another. Where his Spock has an inch on him and Spock has several on his own Captain, the two of them are evenly matched. The burst of color that occurs when their skin touches, back to back, is not as controlled as it was on the raft - Jim doesn't have the mental capacity to recall poetry as he determines the course of action. It is, however, focused - determination hums, tightly bound, under his skin. Adrenaline, the thrill of both physical exertion and a healthy dose of distress - just another day in the Fleet.
"One, two - three - !" Jim braces one foot against the rock, flexing his toes, and pushes up with his other leg on three, pushing back against Spock. It works, insofar as they are indeed suspended between the two cliffs. Jim tilts his head back to look upwards, brushing against Spock's - it looks fairly even all the way up, so hopefully the hypothesis holds true, and the length of both of them combined will be enough to stretch the whole way. "Alright, ready?"
Jim takes a step, core muscles engaged, leveraging his hips a little higher, before waiting for Spock to shift. They'll need to establish a rhythm, a back and forth, as his shoulders shift against Spock's - a push and pull, like a seesaw, the rowing of a boat, sliding into sync as if they're one organism.
This is one task that's never seemed to be an issue for them.
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expiationlogs2024-05-13 12:27 am
no subject
“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.
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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.............................
Spock would rather not think of the sands. He would also rather not think of the last time he'd experienced such environs with Jim. He would also rather not take any further notice of the fact that Jim's flexibility seems to favor one side, though the percentage is largely inconsequential. He wonders if old injuries have too plagued this particular Jim, if there was a reason that — Spock turns his head. He continues his pursuit of wringing out the remaining water, rising to his feet after a beat of contemplation.
"To your previous claim," Spock starts again, shaking out out his hair. It is not the most dignified of gestures, but it serves its purposes. His skin still tingles with an unfortunate sensitivity, which he anticipates is likely to compound if his speculations stand. "I do not believe Matthew knew of the Greek's Poseidon, though—"
He knows he's missing some reference, but it hardly matters now. The tone immediately shifts, the focus upon the sudden realization that their trial again starts now and no amount of stubbornness will enable any further exchanges. Spock immediately lets his gaze sweep from Jim to the gradual erosion to the rockface again, patterning out what prospects they have. Spock only needs a moment to know which path would be best, to retain it. He can see it, an intangible and wavering line from end-to-end.
"You cannot stay, Jim."
It tumbles over his lips, tips across the edge of his canines. It catches as though stone underfoot and the high slant of the sun, an outburst as much as Spock might ever have. For all that he might cry logic, the decision is a marriage of both his birthrights. It comes to him as clearly as Jim's tight expression, the flint in his blue eyes.
Spock circles about to his side, focused and fixed. As though a le-matya on the scent of some wounded, there will be no swaying him. At least, not in this moment.
"While an inelegant solution, my superior strength and endurance makes our choice apparent." And yet, as unyielding as the look he answers with is, the warm light of the chamber makes his eyes look softer somehow. It makes the rich brown of them look Human.
But, as soon as it arrives it also vanishes. He is as dutiful to Jim as he is merciless to all that would impede them. Pain, discomfort — he severs the ability to pay mind to them. As long as logic remains, as long as his controls are only just retained — these are all things to be considered later. He needn't feel it. Not now.
As the next section drops out from the platform and tumbles into the interior sea, he arrives upon any final calculations. The probability of success was high enough that the risk was acceptable. And if should Jim demand them? Spock has them as always at the forefront. He's done it many times before. He will do it as many times as he needs to.
"I shall carry you."
Out of all that may be sacrificed, Jim is hardly the most expendable component. No, Spock thinks, it has always been himself. Always. If Spock must go on, then Jim must too.
It was the only solution.
you'll be billed for the psychic damage this email gave me
Jim buries his hands in the sand, letting the warmth cover them, even as Spock shakes his hair and sends water droplets every which way. It's as undignified as it is charming, in a way, and Jim can't help the funny little smile that pulls at his lips as Spock starts in on untangling his references. Their battle of wits is cut short, and Jim abandons any possible responses to Spock's aborted sentence, turning towards him as he, predictably, starts to argue instead.
That Spock calls him Jim instead of Captain surprises him, however, stopping his rebuts in their tracks, if only for a moment. Jim blinks, processing the tone for a beat as Spock approaches, hovering firm at his shoulder. It's about as close to impassioned as Jim could expect from his Vulcan Commander; and a far cry from his stoic "Let me drown Captain, don't worry about it, it's no trouble," bullshit from twenty minutes ago. Even if Jim will be fine in the water, stubborn bastard. Jim can't even be anything other than fondly exasperated about it, though, not after his insistence on an adamant no man left behind policy.
And of course, Spock's suggestion gets another doubletake - first surprise, then mild incredulity. Jim meets his gaze with evaluation couched in concern; he almost has to look away at the warm ocher color that makes itself known in Spock's iris, a reflection from the sand, surely - instead, he uses it as an excuse to take in the whole of him, looking for any signs of green tinge to his skin. "Spock - are you sure you're in a fit state?"
'Operating near normal capacity' wasn't exactly 'Ready to carry 190 pounds of human 30 feet up a sheer rockface'. Moreover, Jim's attention turns from Spock to the wall again, zeroing in on the holds carved distant from each other, then back to Spock. "I'd put you off balance, and that kind of a climb needs flexibility in range of motion. It might not be possible anyway, I feel like you'd need to be an octopus with eight - "
Jim cuts himself off suddenly, clearly working through an idea that lights him up as soon as it's uncovered. "Have you ever been camping, Spock?"
Jim approaches the wall without further comment, stretching the wingspan of his arms across the divide. Two sides to climb up, ostensibly, but the gap in the middle - he can touch both sides with his fingertips when standing between them. He turns around with a determined grin, beckoning Spock over. The room seemed determined to pit them against one another, but teamwork makes the dream work, as they say. "There's a technique I think we can...repurpose for our current needs."
The poorly-concealed amusement is evident in Jim's expression, but at least his eyes are alight with mirth and no longer abject worry.
the penalty of knowing me is high, etc.
It is that determination and certainty that buoys him forth, that brings him to rest as his side as though an anchor. What hypocrisies he engages in and does not? It does not matter. It is illogical to dwell upon a double-standard when the value of the other party is far more evident than his own. And it is so, despite the look that Jim casts him. It is not distrust, he knows. It is consideration. It is a hope for another alternative, when one may not be present. Still, the defense rises readily to his tongue, the probabilities and percentages available to him as they so often are. They are as accurate as they might be in this scenario. And this scenario?
Unquestionably, he nearly says. There is no conclusion without a first attempt. But, the words are devoured by the rumbling behind them. They are ensnared by the sudden spark of inspiration that flares up in Jim, the frenetic motion of his mind moving them further in. Spock follows, willing to hear the argument. They have time. They have time enough yet.
"Not as such," Spock says, settling as though a shadow would alongside him. He believes he knows what it is Jim may be suggesting, knowing that his love of free climbing, but there are times. There are times, further and further between, that Spock cannot yet discern the conclusion before Jim approaches it. "Though you have waxed on most expansively about such activities before."
He casts a discerning eye over the spaces afforded, the angle and cut of the rock. There are few solutions he might come to, but there is something to be said of making a wedge of forms. If one gains the appropriate traction and balances external force - it is not ideal, given the way his body still burns with the excess stimulus, but it is better than what might be. Could be.
The math works out right.
He arches a brow, raises with it the remnants of his shields. They will hold just enough. He will make them. He takes a breath, meets Jim's eyes. He squares himself internally, mirrors from Jim the sturdiness of his form. The certainty.
"A tribute to your eight-legged Terran mollusk, I presume?"
What else might it be?
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Regardless, Spock's premise is faulty, though he has not given voice to it (probably because he knows.) No one life was worth more than any other, fullstop. Even if one did engage in that kind of thinking - there's no one who would agree with Jim being worth more than Spock, by any metric. No one.
If Spock were here, and I were there, what would he do?
"Oh, we've definitely got to rectify that when we get out of here," Jim grins, all teeth, and resist the urge to bump his shoulder against Spock's - they're not wearing the protective layer of their uniforms to make the gesture friendly and not an imposition. "You'll like it. Bring your sample kit and you'll have a blast."
Spock gets to fondle plants, Jim can roast marshmallows. Wins all around. It's a pleasant distraction from the climb in front of them, but not one Jim can indulge for long; another piece of the platform falls away with a distant splash in the water below, and he squares his shoulders with determination.
"Something like that." Jim's amusement holds, even as he steps between the ridge, turning so he's facing right, the left half empty - he won't be able to stretch across both on his own. "You're familiar with how the puborectalis muscle functions, I take it."
Jim gestures behind himself, committing to a half squat in demonstration; he's pretty sure Spock will pick up his point, camping experience or not. "If we stand back to back, I think we'll be able to brace and use each other for leverage."
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And thus, they reach such an impasse: that is one statement that would never sway this or that or another Spock. If he himself was so important, he should think, then why is Jim not? And he supposes this is why Jim spins about in his usual and chaotic thoughts. That he strikes upon an interesting compromise and course is no surprise to Spock. This is what makes him the Captain, after all.
Spock has no doubt he needn't remind Jim that his condition (as well as Jim's) is not stellar at the moment. Even so, he takes to Jim's suggestion without further thought. The sooner they might scale this obstacle, perhaps, the sooner they might clear this room. And, if there is a particular sort of mercy that the tower might show them, come upon a change of clothing.
"An inelegant solution, but a practical one."
Spock assesses the modeled position for no longer than he has to, eyes flicking up and away to focus upon the grain of the rock. He clears his throat, heart thudding away against his side. He reminds himself of what Jim has told upon the raft in the lower half of the room (he'd tell him, he'd left him know).
"As you wish," he says, the syllables rounded with the usual amount of capitulation. It is no hardship to answer that whim, but time is running out. "I believe the saying goes: 'on your mark.'"
He makes himself as pliant as he ought, settles with his back against Jim's.
Get set and go?
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More importantly, he would not want to.
Perhaps it's selfish, in the way that caring for someone can be, sometimes - but it's no secret that Spock would outlive all of them, and Jim, admittedly, takes some amount of comfort in knowing that. There's no guarantee, of course, now that his universe is out of sync with the one this Spock hails from - but if there's anything Jim hopes remains a constant, well, his answer should come as no surprise.
"Work smarter, not harder." It's the only idea he's got, and while he's open to suggestions, they'll be pushing it on time soon enough. Spock acquiesces to the idea, which means he's determined it's likely (enough) to succeed - whether it's still post-hypothermic delusion or not, Jim will take the wins where he can get them.
Spock assumes the position behind him, and Jim links their arms together, leaning back to brace them against one another. Where his Spock has an inch on him and Spock has several on his own Captain, the two of them are evenly matched. The burst of color that occurs when their skin touches, back to back, is not as controlled as it was on the raft - Jim doesn't have the mental capacity to recall poetry as he determines the course of action. It is, however, focused - determination hums, tightly bound, under his skin. Adrenaline, the thrill of both physical exertion and a healthy dose of distress - just another day in the Fleet.
"One, two - three - !" Jim braces one foot against the rock, flexing his toes, and pushes up with his other leg on three, pushing back against Spock. It works, insofar as they are indeed suspended between the two cliffs. Jim tilts his head back to look upwards, brushing against Spock's - it looks fairly even all the way up, so hopefully the hypothesis holds true, and the length of both of them combined will be enough to stretch the whole way. "Alright, ready?"
Jim takes a step, core muscles engaged, leveraging his hips a little higher, before waiting for Spock to shift. They'll need to establish a rhythm, a back and forth, as his shoulders shift against Spock's - a push and pull, like a seesaw, the rowing of a boat, sliding into sync as if they're one organism.
This is one task that's never seemed to be an issue for them.