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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
expiationmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
expiationlogs2024-05-13 12:27 am
no subject
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.
no subject
Spock looks - slightly off-balance, if Jim had to press a definition, though Jim isn't particularly worried by it - not as much as he was before, when Spock was turning green and bordering on stage two hypothermic shock. He does still look half-drowned, bangs a blunt, wet helmet against his forehead, a detail that inspires a flash of humor and fondness despite the circumstances; Jim's sure he doesn't look much better, save the soggy sweatband keeping his hair out of his eyes. He brushes a patch of sand off his arm, though it mostly just moves the grit around, and he dusts his hands together to try to get rid of the remaining grains.
At least it's warm again, and Jim is sitting up and looking at Spock with clear blue eyes instead of beaten to unconsciousness in the sand. The heat is back, a welcome balm to chase away the sunken chill; it would be uncomfortable soon enough, but Jim's reminded of summers spent under the Iowa sun, the shock of jumping into the cool lake, and clamoring back out just to do it all over again. Funny that, as Spock wrings the water out of his pants (Jim is just going to have to suffer with wet shorts that cling to him, ugh) he can almost imagine him by the lakeside. As if Jim could ever convince him on a picnic, ha. Well, maybe if he brought a chess set.
He pushes the thoughts away with a shake of his head, water sluicing from the wet ends of his hair. Jim snorts, raising an eyebrow at Spock and giving up on clearing the sand from his hands - he leans back on his palms, briefly allowing the warmth of the artificial sunlight to suffuse with his skin. "Oh, haven't you heard, Commander? Poseidon himself quivers before me."
Of course he does. Jim's underlying amusement permeates, even as they evaluate the next obstacle course set in front of them. There's no ticking time clock on this one (he doesn't say it aloud, for fear of jinxing it), though the next platform is high enough up that a fall from high enough up would surely break something.
Jim's gaze falls back on Spock, though it is first drawn to the water droplets the Commander wipes away from the hollow of his throat, carving lines down the arc of his neck. Jim blinks, refocuses, and decides to blame it on the lazy heat winding its way into his brain. He holds up a fistful of sand, particulate slowly sifting from his grasp, the whisper of it trailing back down his arm. "At least we have sand."
In the absence of climbing chalk, well, it's better than nothing. Jim sighs quietly to himself and makes to stand, rolling his neck, then stretching an arm behind his head - warming up the muscles probably wasn't a bad idea, again, given the fact that there was no ticking clock. He twists to lock his hands together behind his back, stretching out the tricep - and then it becomes apparent he's spoken too soon.
Another strange tone chimes, the evidence of the next trial beginning, and the platform rumbles beneath them. The light display blinks into relief on the wall, depicting the stick figures climbing; one of them falls while the other reaches the top, and the instructions end. The other portion to this, it would seem, is the loss of several blocks on the edge of the platform - they simply fall away with a ding. Oh, great, this shit is going to systematically erode from underneath them?
"I don't see any outcroppings." Jim's snapping back to fight or flight mode in an instant, evaluating the rockface before them. A simul-climb wouldn't be easy, not with this configuration, and it's not like they have any rope to assist them; as much as Jim would probably enjoy free-soloing recreationally, it leaves something to be desired here. "I don't know how many of those footholds I can reach."
"You may have to go on without me, Spock." Jim turns back to look at him seriously, fixing his hands on his hips. Better that one of them makes it to the top. Besides, Jim would be fine in the water, unless they released sharks (they couldn't do that, right? Right?) Spock would not have the same luxury.
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?
no subject
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."
no subject
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?
no subject
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.