Jim is trying his very best not to gape, but it's a losing battle. At the end of the day, Jim is human - dazzlingly, blindingly, stupidly human - and his emotions war with each other for dominance quite plainly. Surprise, wariness, delight, concern - they swim behind his eyes, overlapping each other, building to a swell of something too dangerous to name. To name the emotion gives it teeth, sharp in their bite, pinpricks that threaten to pierce his skin. Each word out of Spock's mouth seems increasingly improbable, so much so that Jim wonders, with a rush of deja vu, if he should stop holding Spock's hands so he can look down and count his fingers.
But not impossible.
No, not impossible.
For as much as Jim is laboring under incredulity, Spock's response is rooted in undeniable certainty. There's no hesitance in his answer, no pause of thought behind it. As though his confirmation doesn't require it, because it's been predetermined. And again - Jim knows it's the truth, regardless of the compulsion Spock is suffering; the way Spock meets his gaze, intent solid and firm in dark eyes - Jim knows he would never mislead him. Not about this.
Jim feels the back of his neck burning as Spock continues, stunned into silence. The tension Spock's exhibiting begins to reach him through the initial disbelief, but Jim just keeps Spock's hands in his, firm, shoulder leaning in just enough to press intentionally against his companion's. Were he given leave to do so, Jim certainly would be more tactile - holding himself back is the norm, and even then, he slips. Even then, he is so comfortable in Spock's orbit - more and more, these days, with their experiments in skin-on-skin contact - he's definitely aborted more casual motions than he's able to count, and some, he's unable to quell.
He's long attributed it to his human nature - but this conversation, the dawning understanding in the back of his mind - could it really be something else entirely? Is that what this feeling - the one he's always dismissed as fantasy, a facet of human fallacy - truly is?
Spock's gaze is almost too much, but Jim's also powerless to look away, staring a hole right through him. There is more to this than Federation Standard can encompass, and wordless explanation isn't an option at the moment - which is probably a good thing, given the disorganized state of Jim's brain on a good day, and the big ?!?! klaxon ringing in there right now. His disbelief takes on a new shade - Spock is dead fucking serious about this, that much is evident, and it makes an alarming amount of sense, given the context. Once is by chance, twice is a coincidence - but it's a pretty ridiculous interdimensional coincidence if that holds true.
Besides, when in the blue fuck has anything in his life ever been a coincidence?
Jim's silent, mouth dry as Spock gifts him the Vulkansu, secreted against his palm. T'hy'la. Friend, brother, companion. Soulmate, to use the human turn of phrase. He feels guilty for wondering, after everything he's shared with this Spock, but he can't help it - Is that what Spock meant, at the bar? He may yet realize it, one way or another. Does the Spock of his universe know?
Then, of course, it dawns on him that he did. He must. The memory has dogged Jim lately, ever since the tower, shaken loose by his conversation with Minato, by watching the kid wake up from unimaginable pain, the kind Jim drank to forget. ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜʏ ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴇ...ᴡʜʏ ɪ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ.
Because you are my friend.
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Blessedly, Jim doesn't let that thought pass his lips; instead, the silence after Spock finishes is deafening. Jim's not sure how much information his brain can absorb before he's just floating around in what the fuck soup; hell, he may already be there. This Spock hasn't told his Jim either, and he could throttle him for it, honestly. Content to die in solitude, as though he would not be stealing a piece of Jim with him, a piece he hadn't even realized he was missing - though once whole, he has to wonder how could he ever have been so blind to it.
Because it's batshit crazy, that's the answer, actually. Batshit crazy, and 100% accurate. Sounds about par for the course.
"I thought it was just wishful thinking." The words Jim finally settles on are careful, quietly contemplative - but confirmation, affirmation. He feels it, too, and he has not turned Spock away; if anything, his grasp has tightened. There are a hundred, million things he could say, questions that bubble to the surface, but Jim stifles them in their tracks. This is far too delicate - too precious - to taint with interference. "I didn't think you would - not with me."
Never a question of whether or not Spock could. No, Jim had never doubted that, whatever insults he had ever lobbied, and to whatever effect - no, that was not in question.
Jim can all but feel his heartbeat in his ears, the heat on the back of his neck ablaze, now, but he knows how he needs to punctuate this. He's overwhelmed - they both are, certainly - but he needs to make sure he's absolutely clear, here. As clear as Spock has been, despite the whiplash this entire conversation has given him.
Telegraphing his intention, Jim tips his head, leaning forward to press his lips reverently to Spock's clothed shoulder. He's not sure either of them are in a state for anything more declarative - anything that would risk transference - at present, and it's best not to test it any further. Blue eyes flicker back up to Spock's, decidedly in his personal space; Jim's breathing sounds loud to his own ears, but he holds steady.
"Just in case you ever foolishly forget," Jim's lips twist in a soft smile, the unbearable fondness clawing at the base of his throat - despite everything, the feeling he was trying to combat earlier rises like an unstoppable tide, wonder leaking through. "I'm never not thinking of you."
no subject
But not impossible.
No, not impossible.
For as much as Jim is laboring under incredulity, Spock's response is rooted in undeniable certainty. There's no hesitance in his answer, no pause of thought behind it. As though his confirmation doesn't require it, because it's been predetermined. And again - Jim knows it's the truth, regardless of the compulsion Spock is suffering; the way Spock meets his gaze, intent solid and firm in dark eyes - Jim knows he would never mislead him. Not about this.
Jim feels the back of his neck burning as Spock continues, stunned into silence. The tension Spock's exhibiting begins to reach him through the initial disbelief, but Jim just keeps Spock's hands in his, firm, shoulder leaning in just enough to press intentionally against his companion's. Were he given leave to do so, Jim certainly would be more tactile - holding himself back is the norm, and even then, he slips. Even then, he is so comfortable in Spock's orbit - more and more, these days, with their experiments in skin-on-skin contact - he's definitely aborted more casual motions than he's able to count, and some, he's unable to quell.
He's long attributed it to his human nature - but this conversation, the dawning understanding in the back of his mind - could it really be something else entirely? Is that what this feeling - the one he's always dismissed as fantasy, a facet of human fallacy - truly is?
Spock's gaze is almost too much, but Jim's also powerless to look away, staring a hole right through him. There is more to this than Federation Standard can encompass, and wordless explanation isn't an option at the moment - which is probably a good thing, given the disorganized state of Jim's brain on a good day, and the big ?!?! klaxon ringing in there right now. His disbelief takes on a new shade - Spock is dead fucking serious about this, that much is evident, and it makes an alarming amount of sense, given the context. Once is by chance, twice is a coincidence - but it's a pretty ridiculous interdimensional coincidence if that holds true.
Besides, when in the blue fuck has anything in his life ever been a coincidence?
Jim's silent, mouth dry as Spock gifts him the Vulkansu, secreted against his palm. T'hy'la. Friend, brother, companion. Soulmate, to use the human turn of phrase. He feels guilty for wondering, after everything he's shared with this Spock, but he can't help it - Is that what Spock meant, at the bar? He may yet realize it, one way or another. Does the Spock of his universe know?
Then, of course, it dawns on him that he did. He must. The memory has dogged Jim lately, ever since the tower, shaken loose by his conversation with Minato, by watching the kid wake up from unimaginable pain, the kind Jim drank to forget. ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜʏ ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴇ...ᴡʜʏ ɪ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ.
Because you are my friend.
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Blessedly, Jim doesn't let that thought pass his lips; instead, the silence after Spock finishes is deafening. Jim's not sure how much information his brain can absorb before he's just floating around in what the fuck soup; hell, he may already be there. This Spock hasn't told his Jim either, and he could throttle him for it, honestly. Content to die in solitude, as though he would not be stealing a piece of Jim with him, a piece he hadn't even realized he was missing - though once whole, he has to wonder how could he ever have been so blind to it.
Because it's batshit crazy, that's the answer, actually. Batshit crazy, and 100% accurate. Sounds about par for the course.
"I thought it was just wishful thinking." The words Jim finally settles on are careful, quietly contemplative - but confirmation, affirmation. He feels it, too, and he has not turned Spock away; if anything, his grasp has tightened. There are a hundred, million things he could say, questions that bubble to the surface, but Jim stifles them in their tracks. This is far too delicate - too precious - to taint with interference. "I didn't think you would - not with me."
Never a question of whether or not Spock could. No, Jim had never doubted that, whatever insults he had ever lobbied, and to whatever effect - no, that was not in question.
Jim can all but feel his heartbeat in his ears, the heat on the back of his neck ablaze, now, but he knows how he needs to punctuate this. He's overwhelmed - they both are, certainly - but he needs to make sure he's absolutely clear, here. As clear as Spock has been, despite the whiplash this entire conversation has given him.
Telegraphing his intention, Jim tips his head, leaning forward to press his lips reverently to Spock's clothed shoulder. He's not sure either of them are in a state for anything more declarative - anything that would risk transference - at present, and it's best not to test it any further. Blue eyes flicker back up to Spock's, decidedly in his personal space; Jim's breathing sounds loud to his own ears, but he holds steady.
"Just in case you ever foolishly forget," Jim's lips twist in a soft smile, the unbearable fondness clawing at the base of his throat - despite everything, the feeling he was trying to combat earlier rises like an unstoppable tide, wonder leaking through. "I'm never not thinking of you."