This, at last, seems to unfreeze something inside Jim. Despite the emotional whiplash Spock seems determined to act out in front of him, Jim knows, intelligently and beyond the bounds of his own emotions, that Spock is not in control. Whether the lashing out had anything to do with the truth of things mattered little - it was a product of Spock's defense, not intentional offense. A push away and a snarl, the snapping of teeth, because Jim was too close to something and knew not where he tread.
Jim watches him carefully, remaining for the moment next to the door, sharp gaze tracing over Spock's visage, reading, as he is so prone to doing, whatever he might find there. What he finds is - contrite, anxious, and as Spock described a moment ago, shame to a degree that's almost painful to look at, like trying to stare directly into a supernova. Spock is wringing his wrists, long fingers trapping his arms in about his body - though whether he's seeking to tamp down on his control by way of physical restraint or prevent the impulse to reach out, Jim couldn't say.
"Spock," Jim starts again with a gentle tone, though it was no less firm in terms of his conviction, finally releasing his own wrist from behind his back - gripping it wasn't actually helping the muscle tremor, and more importantly, one of them needed to be open. Despite the uncertainty, despite the events of the previous night or this morning, despite everything - Jim has always offered the proverbial hand when Spock should find himself in need of one. He's not about to stop now. "I know it isn't your way to talk about this, and I respect that, I do. I'm sorry to ask this of you."
"But it's me you're talking to, Spock." How much that's worth, well, they're about to find out, blue gaze turned imploring, earnest. "I won't judge you. You haven't judged me."
He's not sure whether pointing that out or not is helpful, but it is true. From the very first, Spock had trusted him. Believed in him, unshakably, over that horrible slip of paper. Whatever Spock's been accused of - hell, even if whatever it is happens to be true - he has Jim's confidence. Sure, he already had it by virtue of their history but - Spock earned it, too. He's already proven himself, over and over again, and Jim knows not only in his heart but also his gut, the whole of his being, that nothing can change that.
Spock slinks across the room, apparently capitulating to his request, though whether it's because he's actually relenting or suffering from something else remains to be seen. Jim eyes him, but again refrains from moving closer, letting Spock have run of the space when he chooses to sit at the end of the bed. Bones perks his head up, paws shifting on the sheets, just watching the both of them - probably debating whether or not he wanted to go over and stick his wet nose under Spock's arm.
Spock won't look at him, and Jim falls silent, absorbing what he has to say. He hears the double meaning in Spock's words, though the truth of them is heavy, in more ways than one. The things Jim might have asked him for, before the sentencing - it all flies out the window, a moot point, paling in comparison to the anger that lights up within him as soon as Spock confirms it is, indeed, now a compulsion outside of his control. Jim hasn't been this livid in a long time, and it burns, white-hot - indignant, wrathful, and righteous. Not only was it all a fucking lie about Spock being returned as is, but they've gone and fucked with his mind. A violation for anyone, but especially for a Vulcan, especially for Spock, who keeps such careful boundaries. Jim knows it, of course he does, particularly because he's only just been welcomed, however carefully, beyond the usual bounds - and he recognizes what a gift that is. Something to be treasured and protected, not ripped wide open and left bleeding, so carelessly.
He's going to kill Jerry.
But Jim breathes through it, holding himself silent as he takes the rest of Spock's confession. His hand returns to his wrist, jaw tight, tension returned - but none of it is aimed at Spock, certainly. Spock, who is - not as distraught as Jim's ever seen him, but damn well close to it. Reliving something horrendous, something that apparently ended in other him having a near-death experience at Spock's hands - though the details as they unfold are so far from what Jim could have thought to expect that it almost doesn't sound like it could be real. But it is, undeniably - the way Spock's hands shake, the tremble of unsteadiness that seems to permeate through his entire being as he divulges his crime. It's as real as anything, and the discomfiture Spock's been holding within himself is no laughing matter.
Jim really is going to kill Jerry.
The beat of silence stretches when Spock finishes, still staring down at his hands. Bent, bowed under the weight of all that he's been carrying, and Jim takes the moment to stow his anger, his rage on Spock's behalf. There will be time needed later, to process everything he's set aside - but as Jim's gaze flickers from Spock's down-turned head to his hands, still picking and pulling at his own skin, Jim knows that his anger is not what Spock needs.
To say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays. The quote springs unbidden to the forefront of his mind, and Jim exhales, finally unfolding himself from his rigid position by the door. He crosses the few paces to where Spock has stationed himself on the cedar chest, each step intentional, before he pauses to crouch next to his friend. Spock doesn't need his steel, either, his command, he needs - kindness. A safe harbor, to bring his ship in from turbulent waters. He needs, as Jim so thoughtlessly threw out before, his understanding.
"We're going to have a talk later about what's considered 'necessary' information." Jim reaches up to take the blanket off the end of the bed, pulling it from behind Spock, and pressing it into his hands. Muted with the fabric, careful not to touch skin, Jim squeezes, a reassurance. He leaves the blanket in Spock's care, giving him something else to worry his hands with, instead of continuing to bring green blotches to the surface with the force of his own grip. Jim levels him with the steady force of his attention, tipping his head into Spock's field of view. "I'm so sorry that happened to you."
Is it what Spock is expecting him to say? Jim would wager probably not. But it's true, and something Jim's not sure Spock's heard before. He's also sorry that this is happening to him now. Jim sighs softly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, canting his head to the side as his hand drops to rest his forearm on his knee. Will this hit his Spock, too? It certainly is a fair question. Perhaps Jim doesn't understand it enough (he doesn't), but his first instinct is to attribute it to this Spock's single status. His Spock had a girlfriend, who might end up betrothed to him by the time this 'blood fever' came knocking. Surely it would simply be...taken care of in the natural order of things. Which what did that even mean?
"You didn't kill him, Spock. He survived." This feels it bears repeating, a reminder when Spock is so lost in his guilt. Jim's hands come together, folding into one another, a casualness that's measured - gentle, for Spock's benefit. "And I can promise you that he forgives you, whatever sin those bastards wrote on that piece of paper - I know it. I know he does."
He knows he would have moved heaven and earth to get Spock where he needed to be, court martial be damned - he can't imagine his counterpart would be any different on the matter. Jim would beat the other Captain's ass himself if he was wrong; he can get in line right behind Jerry.
"This...the blood fever." He feels like an asshole for asking when Spock can't tell him to shove it, but he needs to know - it's not a prolongation simply to sate curiosity. "You've passed it, with this...with what happened? And it can't be...induced, can it?"
God forbid the powers that be figure out how to unleash a violent, illogical Vulcan on Aldrip. But if they could do this, Jim couldn't rule it out. "I'm trying not to ask you too many questions - shit, I have about a million and one - but if you would be willing to tell me more, I would hear it."
no subject
Jim watches him carefully, remaining for the moment next to the door, sharp gaze tracing over Spock's visage, reading, as he is so prone to doing, whatever he might find there. What he finds is - contrite, anxious, and as Spock described a moment ago, shame to a degree that's almost painful to look at, like trying to stare directly into a supernova. Spock is wringing his wrists, long fingers trapping his arms in about his body - though whether he's seeking to tamp down on his control by way of physical restraint or prevent the impulse to reach out, Jim couldn't say.
"Spock," Jim starts again with a gentle tone, though it was no less firm in terms of his conviction, finally releasing his own wrist from behind his back - gripping it wasn't actually helping the muscle tremor, and more importantly, one of them needed to be open. Despite the uncertainty, despite the events of the previous night or this morning, despite everything - Jim has always offered the proverbial hand when Spock should find himself in need of one. He's not about to stop now. "I know it isn't your way to talk about this, and I respect that, I do. I'm sorry to ask this of you."
"But it's me you're talking to, Spock." How much that's worth, well, they're about to find out, blue gaze turned imploring, earnest. "I won't judge you. You haven't judged me."
He's not sure whether pointing that out or not is helpful, but it is true. From the very first, Spock had trusted him. Believed in him, unshakably, over that horrible slip of paper. Whatever Spock's been accused of - hell, even if whatever it is happens to be true - he has Jim's confidence. Sure, he already had it by virtue of their history but - Spock earned it, too. He's already proven himself, over and over again, and Jim knows not only in his heart but also his gut, the whole of his being, that nothing can change that.
Spock slinks across the room, apparently capitulating to his request, though whether it's because he's actually relenting or suffering from something else remains to be seen. Jim eyes him, but again refrains from moving closer, letting Spock have run of the space when he chooses to sit at the end of the bed. Bones perks his head up, paws shifting on the sheets, just watching the both of them - probably debating whether or not he wanted to go over and stick his wet nose under Spock's arm.
Spock won't look at him, and Jim falls silent, absorbing what he has to say. He hears the double meaning in Spock's words, though the truth of them is heavy, in more ways than one. The things Jim might have asked him for, before the sentencing - it all flies out the window, a moot point, paling in comparison to the anger that lights up within him as soon as Spock confirms it is, indeed, now a compulsion outside of his control. Jim hasn't been this livid in a long time, and it burns, white-hot - indignant, wrathful, and righteous. Not only was it all a fucking lie about Spock being returned as is, but they've gone and fucked with his mind. A violation for anyone, but especially for a Vulcan, especially for Spock, who keeps such careful boundaries. Jim knows it, of course he does, particularly because he's only just been welcomed, however carefully, beyond the usual bounds - and he recognizes what a gift that is. Something to be treasured and protected, not ripped wide open and left bleeding, so carelessly.
He's going to kill Jerry.
But Jim breathes through it, holding himself silent as he takes the rest of Spock's confession. His hand returns to his wrist, jaw tight, tension returned - but none of it is aimed at Spock, certainly. Spock, who is - not as distraught as Jim's ever seen him, but damn well close to it. Reliving something horrendous, something that apparently ended in other him having a near-death experience at Spock's hands - though the details as they unfold are so far from what Jim could have thought to expect that it almost doesn't sound like it could be real. But it is, undeniably - the way Spock's hands shake, the tremble of unsteadiness that seems to permeate through his entire being as he divulges his crime. It's as real as anything, and the discomfiture Spock's been holding within himself is no laughing matter.
Jim really is going to kill Jerry.
The beat of silence stretches when Spock finishes, still staring down at his hands. Bent, bowed under the weight of all that he's been carrying, and Jim takes the moment to stow his anger, his rage on Spock's behalf. There will be time needed later, to process everything he's set aside - but as Jim's gaze flickers from Spock's down-turned head to his hands, still picking and pulling at his own skin, Jim knows that his anger is not what Spock needs.
To say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays. The quote springs unbidden to the forefront of his mind, and Jim exhales, finally unfolding himself from his rigid position by the door. He crosses the few paces to where Spock has stationed himself on the cedar chest, each step intentional, before he pauses to crouch next to his friend. Spock doesn't need his steel, either, his command, he needs - kindness. A safe harbor, to bring his ship in from turbulent waters. He needs, as Jim so thoughtlessly threw out before, his understanding.
"We're going to have a talk later about what's considered 'necessary' information." Jim reaches up to take the blanket off the end of the bed, pulling it from behind Spock, and pressing it into his hands. Muted with the fabric, careful not to touch skin, Jim squeezes, a reassurance. He leaves the blanket in Spock's care, giving him something else to worry his hands with, instead of continuing to bring green blotches to the surface with the force of his own grip. Jim levels him with the steady force of his attention, tipping his head into Spock's field of view. "I'm so sorry that happened to you."
Is it what Spock is expecting him to say? Jim would wager probably not. But it's true, and something Jim's not sure Spock's heard before. He's also sorry that this is happening to him now. Jim sighs softly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, canting his head to the side as his hand drops to rest his forearm on his knee. Will this hit his Spock, too? It certainly is a fair question. Perhaps Jim doesn't understand it enough (he doesn't), but his first instinct is to attribute it to this Spock's single status. His Spock had a girlfriend, who might end up betrothed to him by the time this 'blood fever' came knocking. Surely it would simply be...taken care of in the natural order of things. Which what did that even mean?
"You didn't kill him, Spock. He survived." This feels it bears repeating, a reminder when Spock is so lost in his guilt. Jim's hands come together, folding into one another, a casualness that's measured - gentle, for Spock's benefit. "And I can promise you that he forgives you, whatever sin those bastards wrote on that piece of paper - I know it. I know he does."
He knows he would have moved heaven and earth to get Spock where he needed to be, court martial be damned - he can't imagine his counterpart would be any different on the matter. Jim would beat the other Captain's ass himself if he was wrong; he can get in line right behind Jerry.
"This...the blood fever." He feels like an asshole for asking when Spock can't tell him to shove it, but he needs to know - it's not a prolongation simply to sate curiosity. "You've passed it, with this...with what happened? And it can't be...induced, can it?"
God forbid the powers that be figure out how to unleash a violent, illogical Vulcan on Aldrip. But if they could do this, Jim couldn't rule it out. "I'm trying not to ask you too many questions - shit, I have about a million and one - but if you would be willing to tell me more, I would hear it."