And what should one do with them, Spock thinks, but hold them? What should one do, when given the tangled root of one's psyche? What should one do, but work to untangle it? His hands are steady and sure with him—with Jim. What it is he has deigned and not deigned to give is entirely up to him. It should be entirely up to him, not parceled from the self and the soul as though a pithos sharded, a mirror cast up from the dirt. It should not be his to see, to experience. It should not be he, who plucks it like one does something buried in the garden, the wet well of rain forcing it up and forward to slice across the palms of hands and the soles of feet.
But, he is here. He is here, among the flicker and fall of a home that is not his as much as it is. He is here, hauling Jim up from the edge of some yawning oblivion. It is him, who follows Jim tread. It is him, who is translating what it is Jim is told before it is they have fully told it. There is no other reason for the Enterprise to list as she does, to suffer the break through the atmosphere. There is no reason other than—but, Jim's mind is there. It is there and it tethers them. And even now, even now—he knows he cannot out-race what has already happened. He cannot outpace it, as much as he attempts.
It is dread and it is frustration and it is something unholy in the cold and barren parts of him. It is something that surges up against the bond, that thrums with an agony that has not been seen or vocalized before or after or since. He recalls his hands knotted up within Jim's, remembers the ache that had persisted in the aftermath—he remembers and remembers and remembers—
"Jim," he says, following as he's always meant to. Following as he does as he gropes and grapples and stumbles for him. "Jim," he starts again, steering around to the front of him as Jim bends over his own knees, as his lungs catch. His heart throbs against his side, chest vising as he crouches down to look at him. To really look at him.
His hands are already upon his shoulders. He does not attempt to wake him, knowing how it must end. Knowing how it must end, but—perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps, he thinks, he might mold it. Shape it. Bring to the fore something else, anything else—he projects the thought of fingers, the thought of an anchor. He thinks of planting his feet, his mind tugging against what holds them both to the other. Gold around the backs of his knuckles, as if to surface. To coax up, from some depth—
I could not have been here, he murmurs across the expanse. He digs his heels in further, eyes widened against the prospect of what must be coming. Of what was. Of what has been here since the outset—his mouth twists at the corners. He does not think, he does not—I would not have allowed it.
He could never have. He would never have. He should have been the one, the only one. He should have taken it all for him. For them. If there was not Jim—no, Spock could not replace him. Spock could never—no, he should never forgive himself. He would never forgive himself. Without Jim, who might he become? How might he have pushed against the tide so young and so fearful and so without the wit and practice that Jim held as naturally as any, more surely than him?
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expiationlogs2025-01-13 12:39 pm
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But, he is here. He is here, among the flicker and fall of a home that is not his as much as it is. He is here, hauling Jim up from the edge of some yawning oblivion. It is him, who follows Jim tread. It is him, who is translating what it is Jim is told before it is they have fully told it. There is no other reason for the Enterprise to list as she does, to suffer the break through the atmosphere. There is no reason other than—but, Jim's mind is there. It is there and it tethers them. And even now, even now—he knows he cannot out-race what has already happened. He cannot outpace it, as much as he attempts.
It is dread and it is frustration and it is something unholy in the cold and barren parts of him. It is something that surges up against the bond, that thrums with an agony that has not been seen or vocalized before or after or since. He recalls his hands knotted up within Jim's, remembers the ache that had persisted in the aftermath—he remembers and remembers and remembers—
"Jim," he says, following as he's always meant to. Following as he does as he gropes and grapples and stumbles for him. "Jim," he starts again, steering around to the front of him as Jim bends over his own knees, as his lungs catch. His heart throbs against his side, chest vising as he crouches down to look at him. To really look at him.
His hands are already upon his shoulders. He does not attempt to wake him, knowing how it must end. Knowing how it must end, but—perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps, he thinks, he might mold it. Shape it. Bring to the fore something else, anything else—he projects the thought of fingers, the thought of an anchor. He thinks of planting his feet, his mind tugging against what holds them both to the other. Gold around the backs of his knuckles, as if to surface. To coax up, from some depth—
I could not have been here, he murmurs across the expanse. He digs his heels in further, eyes widened against the prospect of what must be coming. Of what was. Of what has been here since the outset—his mouth twists at the corners. He does not think, he does not—I would not have allowed it.
He could never have. He would never have. He should have been the one, the only one. He should have taken it all for him. For them. If there was not Jim—no, Spock could not replace him. Spock could never—no, he should never forgive himself. He would never forgive himself. Without Jim, who might he become? How might he have pushed against the tide so young and so fearful and so without the wit and practice that Jim held as naturally as any, more surely than him?
He could not fathom it.