I won't judge you, he says. You haven't judged me.
And yet, he thinks that Jim should have every right to. As he has acted now and before, he thinks he might hold every reason. For one who holds so little pride in much of himself, it was his own pride that had failed him. Jim, who had given and given and given for all that Spock refused to reciprocate. Certainly, what is material when placed against the weight of Jim's patience, his loyalty — it is nothing, comparatively. It is nothing, Spock thinks, as he weaves the blanket Jim's pressed into his hands across the flat of his palms, the bruised vees of his digits. This, he thinks, is nothing. Nothing, when it is Jim who crouches before him. When it is Jim, who looks upon him and implores him. It is nothing, when weighed against the way Jim always seems to seek him. When, Spock knows, he ought not to be sought.
But, here is Jim. And here is Spock. And no matter their differences, Spock reaches back. He reaches back to the hand that holds his, that squeezes his briefly. Masked as it is through the fabric, he finds the sturdy warmth of Jim's arm. Clumsy, almost aimless, he tucks his thumb into the shadow of his elbow.
He focuses.
“Yes,” Spock says, a sigh more than breath. It comes free from the chest, something sincere as it is sacred. It is something he believes, that Jim forgives him. It is something he believes, no matter how worthy he believes himself of it. No matter how, he thinks now, he wish he need not elaborate upon the fact that he should contemplate such things. But, it matters little now. The words are already Jim's to know before Spock might cease them. “But, it is… Simpler a thing to accept from another than it is to accept for the self.”
Between them, the bridge of fabric Spock shields himself with runs taut. Speckled pale and evergreen where it is Spock's palms touch, the blood is oxidizing. Lanced through the threading, the evidence of his own shame turns a weaker copper — mutes into dull bronze.
“I believe you too know this to be true.”
He knows Jim, any and all and him, to be so hard upon himself. For all that Spock may lay judgement upon his own person, he finds it difficult to conceive of a reality wherein in he would find any Jim deserving of such unfavorable scrutiny. He finds it difficult to believe that Jim is not already so aware of his own challenges, that he strives to make better of them. That he, that he and his own Spock, might not have found such an equilibrium wherein they are able to supplement. An answer to a question. A question, still. Spock holds no knowledge of anyone else in the way he holds knowledge of Jim. He wonders if it is the same of him.
Either way, the corners of Spock's mouth twitch. It is not a smile in the conventional sense, joyless as it is fatigued. But, Jim is here beside him. Jim has remained and, in the end, Spock has always ceased fighting. He nods, once and shallowly.
“It is illogical to apologize for what has already occurred. That I have not yet come to accept the associated emotions is fault of my own.”
A truth he cannot deny, no matter the reasoning. It is something that he still recalls in waking, the sands beneath Jim's back. The scent of his Captain's blood upon his hands. The fever, slowly leaving. He had offered himself for arrest the moment they had again boarded, Jim's limp body hoisted up upon the gurney. Reeling, it was all that Spock could think to do. And then—
Spock knows the questions before they might leave Jim's lips. He knows them, as he shifts upon the cedar trunk. Squeezing his arm, he tells Jim gently: "Captain, please take a seat."
He does not elaborate further. He needn't. He knows as well as Jim does the stiffness of his body, the odd aches and pains that such postures bring. These reminders had arisen more recently, but — regardless of whether Jim joins him or not, he keeps his hand stationed upon Jim's arm. It is a tenuous link, but it steadies. It steadies, and Spock should like to think it reassures Jim. He should like to think, perhaps, that it eases the frustrations that are so prone to boil up in him.
But, Jim had asked him to further specify. And so, Spock does with the shift of his gaze to the spaces between them. For all that he knows what Jim tells him is not empty, shame is insidious. It pulls between the slats of his ribs, makes of his heart something that drums both steady and painful.
“Marriage or challenge,” he clarifies eventually, the translation tripping across the rougher, Vulcan syllables. At the lips, it comes as koon-ut-kal-if-fee, but the approximation lacks the gravity. It lacks, in the ways one might expect. “Once, we had attempted to meet the expectations of our families. It was I who found I could not continue our arrangement as it stood. As she did not disagree, I did not suspect that she would wait for me. But, such bonds arranged for necessity are not so easily broken. Yours too should – or may – have had a comparable one.”
It is impossible to say, impossible to know. Millions were left to die. Fewer still were left to live. But, his own T'Pring had been beautiful as blade might be. Perfect in the way of her symmetry, her words could never quite seize upon the Human. But, it had fascinated. It had intrigued, where her parents had hated. Had cast upon his mother the same derision he had dealt with all his life. It was something he could not abide. It was something he could not stand. It was this, among the countless other polarities, that had led them from the other in the end. And Spock?
He had long learned before, what it was like to be had after the wanting.
Outside, Aldrip's morning stretches long and lean into midday. If he might lift his head, Spock can catch the scent of the roiling sea, taste the ancient bodies that comprise it. Salt upon the tongue, he breathes around the tightness in shoulders. It will be a long time yet, before there is any hope of their loosening.
“To my knowledge, our time cannot be induced without a significant degree of biological disruption,” he continues, as prompted. He lifts his eyes again, the shame settling. A stalwart companion, it nests down in the depths of his chest and remains there. “You need not worry.”
He needn't. And, as much as he might like to end his explanation here, there is more yet to know. There is more yet to be handed to Jim, the words wandering and thin.
“My own circumstances were in the extreme. Even now, I do not know if it shall ever occur again.”
He knows it necessity, to lay such things upon the metaphorical dining surface. It does not remove its sting, even so, but this too is important. He cannot know, not with unique ancestry. Both Human and Vulcan, neither Vulcan nor Human — this too is a wound that Spock presses his fingers against. It hurts no less smartly than any other of its kind, but he does it regardless.
no subject
And yet, he thinks that Jim should have every right to. As he has acted now and before, he thinks he might hold every reason. For one who holds so little pride in much of himself, it was his own pride that had failed him. Jim, who had given and given and given for all that Spock refused to reciprocate. Certainly, what is material when placed against the weight of Jim's patience, his loyalty — it is nothing, comparatively. It is nothing, Spock thinks, as he weaves the blanket Jim's pressed into his hands across the flat of his palms, the bruised vees of his digits. This, he thinks, is nothing. Nothing, when it is Jim who crouches before him. When it is Jim, who looks upon him and implores him. It is nothing, when weighed against the way Jim always seems to seek him. When, Spock knows, he ought not to be sought.
But, here is Jim. And here is Spock. And no matter their differences, Spock reaches back. He reaches back to the hand that holds his, that squeezes his briefly. Masked as it is through the fabric, he finds the sturdy warmth of Jim's arm. Clumsy, almost aimless, he tucks his thumb into the shadow of his elbow.
He focuses.
“Yes,” Spock says, a sigh more than breath. It comes free from the chest, something sincere as it is sacred. It is something he believes, that Jim forgives him. It is something he believes, no matter how worthy he believes himself of it. No matter how, he thinks now, he wish he need not elaborate upon the fact that he should contemplate such things. But, it matters little now. The words are already Jim's to know before Spock might cease them. “But, it is… Simpler a thing to accept from another than it is to accept for the self.”
Between them, the bridge of fabric Spock shields himself with runs taut. Speckled pale and evergreen where it is Spock's palms touch, the blood is oxidizing. Lanced through the threading, the evidence of his own shame turns a weaker copper — mutes into dull bronze.
“I believe you too know this to be true.”
He knows Jim, any and all and him, to be so hard upon himself. For all that Spock may lay judgement upon his own person, he finds it difficult to conceive of a reality wherein in he would find any Jim deserving of such unfavorable scrutiny. He finds it difficult to believe that Jim is not already so aware of his own challenges, that he strives to make better of them. That he, that he and his own Spock, might not have found such an equilibrium wherein they are able to supplement. An answer to a question. A question, still. Spock holds no knowledge of anyone else in the way he holds knowledge of Jim. He wonders if it is the same of him.
Either way, the corners of Spock's mouth twitch. It is not a smile in the conventional sense, joyless as it is fatigued. But, Jim is here beside him. Jim has remained and, in the end, Spock has always ceased fighting. He nods, once and shallowly.
“It is illogical to apologize for what has already occurred. That I have not yet come to accept the associated emotions is fault of my own.”
A truth he cannot deny, no matter the reasoning. It is something that he still recalls in waking, the sands beneath Jim's back. The scent of his Captain's blood upon his hands. The fever, slowly leaving. He had offered himself for arrest the moment they had again boarded, Jim's limp body hoisted up upon the gurney. Reeling, it was all that Spock could think to do. And then—
Spock knows the questions before they might leave Jim's lips. He knows them, as he shifts upon the cedar trunk. Squeezing his arm, he tells Jim gently: "Captain, please take a seat."
He does not elaborate further. He needn't. He knows as well as Jim does the stiffness of his body, the odd aches and pains that such postures bring. These reminders had arisen more recently, but — regardless of whether Jim joins him or not, he keeps his hand stationed upon Jim's arm. It is a tenuous link, but it steadies. It steadies, and Spock should like to think it reassures Jim. He should like to think, perhaps, that it eases the frustrations that are so prone to boil up in him.
But, Jim had asked him to further specify. And so, Spock does with the shift of his gaze to the spaces between them. For all that he knows what Jim tells him is not empty, shame is insidious. It pulls between the slats of his ribs, makes of his heart something that drums both steady and painful.
“Marriage or challenge,” he clarifies eventually, the translation tripping across the rougher, Vulcan syllables. At the lips, it comes as koon-ut-kal-if-fee, but the approximation lacks the gravity. It lacks, in the ways one might expect. “Once, we had attempted to meet the expectations of our families. It was I who found I could not continue our arrangement as it stood. As she did not disagree, I did not suspect that she would wait for me. But, such bonds arranged for necessity are not so easily broken. Yours too should – or may – have had a comparable one.”
It is impossible to say, impossible to know. Millions were left to die. Fewer still were left to live. But, his own T'Pring had been beautiful as blade might be. Perfect in the way of her symmetry, her words could never quite seize upon the Human. But, it had fascinated. It had intrigued, where her parents had hated. Had cast upon his mother the same derision he had dealt with all his life. It was something he could not abide. It was something he could not stand. It was this, among the countless other polarities, that had led them from the other in the end. And Spock?
He had long learned before, what it was like to be had after the wanting.
Outside, Aldrip's morning stretches long and lean into midday. If he might lift his head, Spock can catch the scent of the roiling sea, taste the ancient bodies that comprise it. Salt upon the tongue, he breathes around the tightness in shoulders. It will be a long time yet, before there is any hope of their loosening.
“To my knowledge, our time cannot be induced without a significant degree of biological disruption,” he continues, as prompted. He lifts his eyes again, the shame settling. A stalwart companion, it nests down in the depths of his chest and remains there. “You need not worry.”
He needn't. And, as much as he might like to end his explanation here, there is more yet to know. There is more yet to be handed to Jim, the words wandering and thin.
“My own circumstances were in the extreme. Even now, I do not know if it shall ever occur again.”
He knows it necessity, to lay such things upon the metaphorical dining surface. It does not remove its sting, even so, but this too is important. He cannot know, not with unique ancestry. Both Human and Vulcan, neither Vulcan nor Human — this too is a wound that Spock presses his fingers against. It hurts no less smartly than any other of its kind, but he does it regardless.
He does it, because it is what Jim needs.