Whatever the sentencing had done to him, it's definitely a discernible change from this morning. It's evident, even as Spock does his best to hide it (which is seriously a piss-poor showing indeed); he's downright twitchy (by Jim's standards for Normal Spock Behavior, at least), and Jim's concern has only grown, all the way back to the house. Jim doesn't even need the conclusive evidence that was provided when his fingers had swiped gently against the strip of Spock's exposed skin, right at the cuff of his uniform, and the maelstrom beneath had slammed into him, very nearly knocking him on his ass. Jim had, quite literally, stumbled; he wasn't expecting it and had no shields of his own against the tidal wave. It was too much to parse; a chaotic swirl of every emotion Jim could name, as well as a few he could not. He thinks the teenagers bought his mumbled excuse about a late night, not wanting to out his companion in front of an audience or draw attention to it - but that was not right.
Speaking of which, there's also last night to discuss - which Jim is fairly sure isn't the current issue, because his hand wasn't stinging the way it is now when he touched Spock before he went into the damn courthouse. They were interrupted from having to address it when Jim had awoken and Spock wasn't in the house, and news of his mandatory reporting for sentencing had come through. While it's not the first question on Jim's mind, it is still there, and Jim knows it's better not to let it fester. Is it nerve-wracking? Absolutely. But the alternative is worse, in the long-run; the danger of just...caving to the temptation of letting it lie, because if Spock can get away with it, he might not say anything at all, ever. Someone's gotta jump, and out of the two of them, Jim has always been pretty good at leaping without looking.
Spock's the one that figures out how to catch him while he's in the air, after all.
Point being: when they get back to the house, Spock being downright weird and Jim's arm still kind of tingling, his stare turns incredulous when Spock tries the weak excuse of meditation, in an attempt to beat a hasty retreat. He follows Spock to the doorway of his bedroom, where it seems Bones has curled up on the mess Jim left of the sheets in his flurry of activity, jumping up to meet Spock downtown. Because yes - he slept in here last night, and not the new bedroom added onto the other side of the house.
"Spock, what the hell?" Alright, maybe he's coming in a little hotter than he intended, but the concern knits his brow, gaze steady as he tracks Spock across the room. Bones perks his head up from where he'd been sleeping, watching the two of them. "What happened in there?"
What's wrong with you? He doesn't ask the question that feels like it might claw its way out of his rib-cage anyway, because then he really will march right back there and start blowing shit up. If something happened, if they hurt Spock in any way -
Jim takes a breath, one hand settling on his leg, thumb brushing anxiously against the seam of his uniform pants, in an effort not to cross his arms. It feels almost strange to wear it again, the contrast of their uniforms both right and wrong. There's the familiarity of the contrasting colors, the united front - but he's not the right Jim to match this Spock, and it's obvious to a more trained eye. The designs are different, though similar; the fabric not quite a match, the colors from differing palettes.
Still, it's a uniform Jim's used to facing battle in, so there's something to be said for that.
"We have to talk about this." The sentence feels too charged, in the space they shared the night in (even though nothing happened, but didn't it, though?) Jim straightens his back, folding his hands behind himself in a facsimile of parade rest; his left hand grips his right wrist, still shaking off the zap he'd gotten earlier. It's what he gets for continuing to touch a live wire. "Don't make me make it an order, Commander."
Before and before and before, he'd been bruised and battered and marked. Before and before and before, he'd been expected to be more than he is and less than he was. It had always been as this from the day he was born and perhaps he was foolish to think that any such person or any such place should come to accept it. Should come to accept Spock. Perhaps it was illogical, to think that one's inclusion was predicated upon the effort they exerted. That perhaps, entrusting where he chose and offering the loyalty that he does—
He knows it is a cowardice. He has always retreated when the stakes were too much, when the emotional load too heavy. He had always been the first to blink, the first to shy from the hand that reached for his as though he were a part. It had always been easiest this way, Spock had justified, knowing what he does. If there was no one else that might have held for him the expectation of the emotional, the irrational, and the secreted — he might be able to convince them all that he was precisely as he projected. He might be able to convince them all that there was nothing more to fault, save for the consistency — the inhumanity — of him.
In the end, Spock could neither leave nor be left those who might have wished to be closer to him. In the end, he'd thought, he was all the better for it.
And yet, Aldrip — Aldrip had been gladdened to demonstrate the depths of his failings, the uncertainty of his foundations. It had been pleased, to show him the depth and the breadth of all of his rot. No matter how many exceptions he might have carved, no matter how many strides he might have made to settling some accursed equilibrium, it was never quick enough. It was never sure enough. It was on his terms to be given, to be turned over to the recipient who had done nothing more than to earn it, as dubious a prize as it might have been.
And so of course, he knows, of course Jim follows him. He follows him less for the preservation of his own self and more for the preservation of him and all in Spock seems to rankle at the absolute prospect that he might subject himself to the consequences that do not belong to him (for what good would Spock have done him— what good does he do him now?).
That Spock rounds to face him across the division of their own unspoken aftermath is a suiting battlefield as any, one he wished to pick across upon his own terms. All that swarms up in him already is thick and dark and heady and he might find his own chin tipping up in a defiance he does not feel, but rather feels he must.
"Specify," Spock starts, sharper than he means and hotter than he ought. He should rather turn again to look out at the ocean, to look anywhere that is not at Jim, but it is against his programming. It is against all that it is he stands for, when the moment strains like a bow string and the line of his mouth runs taut. Since their wanderings back from downtown, he'd walked apart. It was less to ensure that Spock might have protected himself, but more to ensure that Jim would not again expose himself to the whole of what laid stripped to the marrow, what stings him as much as Jim stings now. "To which 'this' do you wish for me to refer?"
It is a useless endeavor. He knows that it is. In forcing his hands to unfurl from their trembling fists, it shows only the vulnerability he hides in himself. Pale like the belly of blind, groping things— the green of his blood stands out in neat crescents against the brief flash of his palms. He tucks them behind his back, a poor mimic of Jim's even poorer parade rest. Were he Human, he suspects, the bitter ache of his own flesh might manifest in a cool sweat at the dip of his temple, at the curve of his neck.
Pain is only of the mind. Pain is only temporary. Pain is only part of what alerts beings that they are alive, that they breathe. That they might survive, no matter the circumstance. It is this, that Spock repeats to himself. It is this, with which he might set his jaw. It is this, that he might hold Jim's gaze with his now, but—
The itch in his chest rises. The length of his spine needles and pins, tongue a creature both hideous and foreign. That he works to cage it behind his teeth does little for the nauseousness, the way the room seems to tip. It responds not at all to the assertions that he is able to control what is happening to him, that his emotions are not the force that drive him, but since when has he been one to decide? Here, in this place. How could he have come to believe that there had been any choice? Any chance?
He pulls in a breath. It hitches, hooked at the stitch that works it way into the muscle, the bone. It is shame enough, for Spock to feel as he does at the moment. It shame even more, that he feels most riotously as he drops his gaze to the dark, wooden floors.
In the kitchen, his hearing catches upon a subtle tick. A clock moving forward, despite all that he'd rather it wouldn't.
"I had wished to speak with you," Spock says, words straining. Each feel as though they have been pried from the root of himself, the weight of their bodies carrying with them the suffocating presence of some deeper remorse. "Voluntarily."
The grain beneath their feet warps. The colors run, as Spock thinks he too might wish to. Trapped against some corner, trapped in some Hell of his own making — it does no good to lash at the one who has never inflicted his wounds.
He finds he does not wish to.
"Captain, if you would have me discuss this now—" He pauses, swallows. Swallows, again. His blunt nails cut hot into the flesh of his wrists, bones creaking beneath the force of his own fingertips. He should rather break them, he thinks, than to be reduced to what he now is. The dark of his lashes tremble. He sees nothing, he thinks. He hears nothing, he thinks. The words are far away from his ability to stop them, a wound unable to be stemmed. "Jim. If you would have me discuss this now, I would have no such ability."
Is that not what he wanted? Is that not all that he could have wanted? His No, he knows it. He knows it, as much as the sentence knows it. It is not a cruelty Jim extends to him now, but the bitterness—
"You do not understand," he continues, words like ash and absence. Pleading, if not for the way that all seems to hollow out about the concept. Pain peels back what it is that rests at the base of it, the flashing eyes of a hunted animal. The basest and most profane kind of madness. "This morning, the shame of this sentencing."
It is all things that Jim does not deserve. He does not deserve them now, as much as he deserved them then. He had never wished to bring it to his attention, any of this. He had only— he does not lift his eyes from the ground. Even should Jim's gaze hold a weight both impossible and imploring, it is something that he can't do. It is something that he shouldn't.
For all that it is only they three who might exist in the room, that only they three should be held in the space where it might have (again) began, Spock knows what there is to lose. He knows what there is at the termination of this.
"It is the last thing I should wish to do," he says, the syllables soft and solemn as they too are pulled from his mouth, "to cause you undue harm."
The thing is, Jim thought they understood each other fairly well. He knows emotions are not within Spock's lexicon - he also knows that it's a big, Vulcan conspiracy cover-up to pretend that they don't exist and to convince the rest of the known universe that they don't - but they are there. To speak of them, however, is just...not part of Spock's wheelhouse. Not part of his cellular makeup, however much or little of him is in fact human - this, he inherited from his Vulcan side. Jim, for his part, accepts that immutable fact. Yes, it can be frustrating and yes, sometimes they share moments where Spock seems to swing to the Human side of the spectrum - last night, a prime example - but it's not as though Jim ever really forgets that Spock isn't Human. His Otherness is a part of him, inseparable from the whole.
Sometimes, however, Jim is made to very swiftly (and occasionally, painfully) be reminded of this fact.
The expression on Spock's face when he turns is - Jim doesn't know how to quantify it. Positively dour, that's about all Jim can identify, as if the idea of speaking with him at all is quite possibly the worst thing he could ever imagine. I find myself drawn to speak more with you, too. Well, drunken statements age like milk, why is he surprised?
Jim realizes his mistake in not, quote, 'specifying' when the resistance is made apparent in the tip of Spock's chin, the flash in dark, flat eyes - the cutting words that spit and hiss at him like a prairie rattlesnake threatening to nip at his heel. Except, of course, Spock's not threatening - he's already struck. His untempered emotions having singed Jim already today (Jim's fault, for reaching out, much like this is his fault, now), but more importantly - he was gone when Jim woke up, and while that wasn't the this Jim had intended, it seems Spock thinks he's already made himself clear on the subject, to reference it like that in the first place. He had, after all, made the choice to get up and be gone before entering the courthouse, so what was Jim expecting, anyway? Things always looked different in the light of day, and Jim couldn't hold that against him. And there Jim went, acting like an idiot, stepping beyond the bounds all morning because he had failed to read Spock's silent cues. His hand flexes; he needs to rub the muscle out, but he doesn't, letting it clench. Vulcans didn't do awkward morning-afters, did they? It would ruin the whole 'who gives a fuck' vibe they've got going on. God, he's so fucking stupid.
Perhaps Jim had gotten a little too comfortable here. This was, after all, Spock he was dealing with. Jim had been thinking of him in a softer way, perhaps due to the circumstances and the setting, but he of all people should know how deeply Spock could cut when he wanted to. This Spock or that Spock - they weren't different, not in this way, at the end of the day.
All this being said, the surprise that surely colors Jim's face at Spock's words is swiftly replaced by the immediate shuttering in his expression. For all that Jim can - and frequently does - express the full breadth of human emotion, he also has a poker face when he needs one, and if Spock doesn't want to have this conversation as - friends, whatever they are, which is not anything obviously - then Jim can have it as his Captain, instead. The blue in his eyes grows colder, icy and evaluating, while his left hand squeezes his wrist, as if to drive the stiffness from it via sheer force of will.
Jim compartmentalizes. They have bigger problems, and honestly, they probably always will.
Namely: Spock does not look well.
Looking past the emotions Jim has (for now) managed to beat into the corner of his own mind with a proverbial stick, he attempts to separate the heartfelt concern that aches in his chest from the tactical concern. Chiefly - Spock's rigid with tension, which Jim had noticed before after touching him on the way back - but it looks like it's rapidly coming unmoored. Like he's fighting against something, which seems determined to spill out anyway. Jim's eyes tighten at the corners, scrutinizing Spock's expression (which is quickly falling to miserable) for a moment. His phaser is still on his hip, still set to the highest stun capacity. This is more than snapping irritation - however real or not real it might be, Jim won't speculate lest the mountain of Don't Look Over Here spill over inside him, too - there's something else. Fucking Jerry.
The last time he'd been in a room with an out-of-control Vulcan, he hadn't been alone, at least.
For once in his life, Jim tamps down on the hundreds of glib, mindless responses - or worse, the truly mean ones - that he's well aware could rise to his lips. It hurt, obviously, because it was meant to hurt, because Spock could wield words like a scalpel. For someone who liked to claim emotion was a human fallacy, he sure knew how to incite it with deft aptitude. Still, however much Spock had caught him off guard, unbalanced from the highs and lows of this unusual morning - Jim was his chess partner for a reason, after all. He wouldn't be so easily beaten at the game by obvious bait, and like fuck would he let Spock see him bleed. When Hell froze over, that's when - alright, give him a second to stick that emotion (indignant anger, what is he, a scorned woman? Don't answer that) off to the side with the rest of them.
The beat stretches while Jim stares, uncharacteristically silent. Spock's breath catches, and Jim consciously relaxes his hand - but if he's expecting more vitriol (he is; not surprising, Jim knows he just Has That Effect On People) what Spock offers him is much more confusing.
He wants to say, Why not, Commander? in a hard, professionally demanding voice. Maybe it's not the right approach, who the fuck knows, but apparently a gentle or more laissez-faire approach was going to get a knife stuck in him, so. Being a dick worked last time (when the goal was to get him choked out within an inch of his life) - so maybe Jim will just settle for Not Fucking Around instead of, you know, outright hostile.
But the fact that Spock calls him Jim melts something in his eyes, even though he still doesn't move from the doorway, doesn't loosen his stance. At least Spock has the wherewithal to sound sorry, but the shields, in this instance, have been raised. It's not as though he gains no ground for his efforts, however, when dark eyes return from their journey to the floor, back up to frozen blue. "You're right. I don't understand. Make me understand. I don't even know what they accused you of, let alone what the hell they did to you in there!"
This is the way of things: Jim gives, and Spock takes what he can. Spock gives, and Jim takes what he's given. Jim never asks. But he's asking now, because he must. And he can tell Spock means it, the way the deep brown looks wounded, looks like he's begging Jim for mercy that he can't give, because he's let Spock get away with far too much as it is.
In the end, whatever harm Spock's caused, Jim knows it's his own fault for letting him do it.
"Little late for that one," Jim mutters, mostly to himself, because at the end of the day, he is only human, something was bound to slip through. But it's not spat, not hostile or malicious - it's a plain statement, and only mildly rueful. Which might make it worse, actually. He wouldn't say it's undue, though, whatever harm there might be. His fault. Always his fault. Jim's known it since the day he was born.
"Spock," He starts instead (impressively calmly, might Jim add, thank you), choosing to gloss over it for the moment (forever, probably, just bottle that shit right up!), head inclining just slightly to the side as he regards Spock - the whole of him, how the angry, defensive shell has ebbed into something eminently more vulnerable - but the whole thing just feels unstable in a way that's discomforting, especially coming from someone who Jim is used to seeing poised. "I need you to tell me what happened. Are you...being compelled? Did they give you something?"
It is not a reaction that surprises, but it does not mean it does not burn. For all of Spock’s calculations and computations, for all of his gambles and wagers, there is something inexplicable and frustrating and known in all that Jim is. In all that Spock is, pulling and shoving and grappling at the boundary of what could be, shouldn’t be, shall be—is. Is, no matter how Spock might war against it. No matter how Spock might deny and feint and decry, it is there. It lives, in the way that Jim remains in the doorway immovable and unrelenting. It remains, in the way Jim shifts and shutters and silences. It stays, as loyal and as hopeless as Spock himself is.
The clock moves. Time forward ticks.
Spock tastes acid on the tongue, blood upon the lips. Jim has taken what Spock has given. And Spock?
"A fact for which I might only express regret," he says after a long moment, dark eyes seeking to alleviate what he himself had placed there. Under his fingertips, the bones of his wrists grind together. It is not an ache of necessity, but one that he should rather believe he should place there. It centers him, a bruise to pair the vacancies of spirit. A bruise to match the stretch of his own failings, the problems he has woven in the guise of good-natured dealings. Self-deception is no better than any other lie, he thinks. Self-deception— "Despite my nature, Captain, I too..."
He draws a breath. The information burrs along the softness in his chest, hooks into the flesh and the fiber that make of him him. If it might suffuse him with the poisons of his own thoughts, the poisons of his own errors, there should be no one more deserving. There is no one else who should take the blame for the current agony of his predicament. There is no one else that Spock might point the finger at, but he himself.
(And is that too not suiting?)
Spock, for a moment, does not move. He does not think to, before he is dipping his chin. In the half-light of the bedroom, in the cramped quarters they’ve come to call a “home” in Aldrip, Spock looks no more or less a sinner at the knee in some confessional, no more or less a child caught with the wings of an insect between the stretch of their fingertips. That he loosens his own hands about the adjacent wrists he keeps pinned behind his back is one such admittance on its own, the skin about their edges speckled raw and evergreen with the evidence of his own attempts to restrain instead of relent.
"I too become so possessed by the vanity of appearances.”
All that might claw about the incomprehensibility of sentience do, Spock thinks, and he is no exception. At the base, they all muddle through the difficulties of their own existence. Expectation, desire, reform—Vulcans are not spared this. Spock, in the bafflement of his creation, least of all.
But, relent he does now. He does now, in deference to the harm he’d so sought to prevent. In deference to Jim, who need not put upon such shallow pretense of command after all that he done to him, but does regardless. Does regardless, because Spock’s own pride demands it. It is not something which should be spared so readily for him, he thinks. It is not something that should be as though an opening gambit, a piece slid across the board for the writhing, wounded things in him to take it. To use it, he thinks, as both a mask and a balm.
But, he is weak. And he is vulnerable. And there are things in Spock that he himself cannot look upon dead on, not when he is like this. Not when he is already so placed upon a precipice, the Humanity of Jim both closed and silenced to his access. Not when, he thinks, there is more to lose than there is to be gained in continuing as he is. If not for his sake, he knows, but for Jim’s.
And so, he telegraphs. As he moves, his shorter journey to the foot of the bed is slow, purposeful. He does not seek Jim’s reaction, not in the way of his expression, but instead watches the tension in the line of his body, in the way he keeps his hands. When he is satisfied enough to know he will not flee from him (though, he should think, he would not place blame upon him if he did), he sits upon the cedar chest that had long been placed at the base of the bed. In other times, he might have remarked upon the build of it. He might have thought of the aspirations of its previous owner, the dreams they might have stowed within. He might have allowed himself the quiet extrapolations so characteristic of him, but the need to press forward is greater than the need to remain silent. It builds, as he rests his elbows across his knees. It builds ever more, as he laces together his trembling fingers. Resting his hands upon his lap, he lowers his head once more. His gaze fixes upon his hands, unseeing, but still the words flow. Relentless, they still rise to his lips without care or concern for Jim’s own being. They still rise, in spite of his own.
“I did not wish for you to ask after my status, because I am—” He pauses, throat bobbing about the boundary of something he cannot (will not) name. “I have become aware, that I will say most anything to you. Would give most anything to you, if you asked."
Spock lets the statement land as it will. He knows it not to be an unknown, but to place word to the implicit—it is a debasement. It is a shame, ingrained in the bone and the flesh. It is an embarrassment, the kind that stings about the tips of the ears and floods his body with a kind of nauseousness. It is the color of his eyes, the shape of his emotions. It is his Human mother, used as ammunition. It is the green of blood across the cut of his knuckles as he digs the nail of his thumb into the ridges, the sharp lance of pain through the length of his jaw as he finds himself clenching his teeth.
And still, he watches nothing. He keeps his head down. He continues, the creep of the sun across the floorboards both an eternity and an instant. He exhales, and it is more a sigh than anything else he might admit.
"The council has given me a most just sentence, one that 'compels me,' as you say, to reveal information that is kept. Information, I might add, which at its base is a great source of shame to my people. We do not speak of it to outsiders, as much as we do not choose to voluntarily speak of it among ourselves."
It comes quicker than it ought, but no quicker than it should. Upon the first occasion, within a different time, he had said such things to Jim in the quiet of his quarters. He had hidden it, disguised it, managed it— managed it, as much as he might have. As best as he could. It had only been upon Jim’s insistence that all such matters would be kept strictly confidential, that his value to him was not something so readily replaced, that Spock had given him its name. It had only been to him, in the spaces between spaces. In the undue patience that he’d always handled Spock with. It was nothing that Jim might have handled unwillingly, he recalls. No, he recalls—
You've been most patient with my kinds of madness.
And how had Spock repaid him? Iron and copper, the sands that burned against his back. Stone and steel, sacred ash. Jim, the loop of fabric about his neck. His hands. His hands, Spock’s hands—
Something nameless and fathomless wrenches up in him as though a summer storm, a whipping wind. It clambers at the eaves of him, makes itself a known in the thickness of his voice and the hoarseness in his throat. It burns at the back of his eyes. He thinks of the suns of Vulcan.
"And yet, it was because of my negligence that you—” The words will not stop, will not cease. They claw through the tenderest parts of him. A betrayal, ancient and unique. “That I believed you to be dead. That I had killed you, with my own hands.”
His own hands. His own hands, that tremble still within his lap. His own hands, that sting with the memory of what could have been. What might have been. What was.
"It did not seem suiting, for me to mention its details to you. Not before it was necessary. To a Vulcan, it is this violence that overtakes them once every seven years. A blood fever. A stripping of logic. An impetus, to be soothed by those to whom they were betrothed.” He takes a breath. Despite his efforts, despite any dignity he might retain at all, his shoulders curl in. As though making himself small, unconscious as it is. “I had... Hoped, that I would be spared of it. That perhaps, it would not be necessary to disclose because yours too might yet be."
And is that too not implication enough? There is the division of timelines, circumstances. He does not know how the cycles should be impacted with the destruction of a home that never welcomed him, but had once been known as a home nonetheless. It was a mourning, he still held in his chest, for a world that could be and was not. It was the erasure of such history, such diversity, such… He shakes his head.
"I had made preparations to return to Vulcan, to contend with it myself, but—our course was delayed. You were asked to delay it. I could not have asked you to subject yourself to a court martial nor could I bring myself to express the urgency of my predicament."
How could he? He should rather it be himself that should face the consequence. It should rather be himself, buried within the complexities and nuances of his own culture, that should face what may have come. It was, he knows then and now, a cowardice. A stubborn tradition. Shame and guilt, wrapped within the vestments of ritual and sacrament.
Beneath the halfmoon of his thumbnail, the green of his own blood seeps. He watches it, uncomprehending. The angle of the sun is changing, the light of day making a display of the warm undertones of his hair. Spock takes no note of it.
"As you so often do,” he starts again, his words so soft they seem not meant to be heard, “you persisted despite my attempts. It is something I have both admired and reviled, but find myself so often in emulation.”
Finally, there is something in him that pulls him back to focus. Whether it be Jim or not, it does not matter. What matters is that the explanation has come. He had answered it. And it is this that eases something both knotted and hideous in him. It is this, that puts to rest the shove. At least, he thinks, until Jim again raises questions.
“You have always pulled from me the most irrational of impulses."
And for all it might be flung as insult from another, from Spock it is a tenderness. It is a gentleness, even so.
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."
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.
Spock grips him back through the blanket, a tacit acceptance of his showing of support, insofar as Jim could have expected from his friend. It eases a ghost of a smile onto Jim's face, hinting at the warmth beneath the solemnity. Even after everything Spock has told him, it hasn't dimmed. There's little that can blot out the sun, after all, dedicated as it is to blazing, bright and hot, lighting up the coldest parts of the universe. Few would argue that Jim is not similarly dedicated.
"I do." Jim confirms carefully, his own fingers curling against Spock's arm, fitting over the curve of his forearm. He squeezes again, simple, firm. As if it is no thought that it should be anything otherwise. Yes, him and his Spock - they hold an understanding of one another, a cognizance that is unique, unexpected. It is part of why Jim had been so frustrated, early on, by the few things that did crop up where they found themselves so far apart. How could they know each other so deeply, be so in sync about certain things, an unmatched Command team, and remain wildly divergent on others? Yet, Jim had found, those differences were leading them both to a deeper understanding. Not a weakness, if they didn't allow it to be. And yes, still - there may be things neither of them ever fully know about the other, but just because they did not understand did not preclude them from appreciating those things. Two hands, separated by glass - Jim knows this to be true. "It's always easier said than done, I think we both know that."
Doesn't mean it has no value in being said, though, that the reminder isn't helpful. To externalize the internal, so that it does not set in, eating merrily away where it cannot be burned out. Emotions could be corrosive, like anything, when left to steep. Jim tilts his head, silent for a beat, expression unreadable. "I hurt you, once."
Something they touched on in their hectic meld, though how much of this portion was clear is anyone's guess - there were other, more important things to be divulged, of course. Jim's thumb brushes against Spock's arm, the texture of the blanket raised beneath the pad of his finger. "I meant it to hurt. I got what I wanted, but it was cruel. I've always been sorry for it - and I always will be, even though you've forgiven me."
"Wrestling with these things...you're wrong, Spock. It's not a fault. It's a feature." Jim's own lips quirk in response, but he does not insult Spock by pointing out the humanity of it. Even though it is so sincerely human. "Regret, remorse, it's natural. It stays with us, and that's how we learn. But you can't punish yourself in perpetuity."
"I hurt you, and I learned that I never want to do that again." The offense Jim had given in no way equates to the monumental guilt Spock must have felt, thinking himself responsible for Jim's death - he doesn't mean to imply that it does - but the same principle here applies to both of them, one simply to a higher degree. Jim meets Spock's gaze steadily, pressing home the point. "Keep the remorse. Hold it close, until it burns, and then keep holding it. Let it burn, let it remind you. Don't ever let that go. But the rest, Spock - trade it out for peace, when you can. You shouldn't have to fight a one-man war."
It's not logical, he doesn't point out, but the gentleness that touches Jim's eyes probably conveys the sentiment all the same.
Jim acquiesces, the stiffness already touching his knees as he rises, settling next to Spock on the cedar chest. Their elbows brush, sufficiently covered by their respective uniforms, and Jim leans their shoulders together lightly for a brief moment before he settles back to listen. Trying to keep a grip on his reaction is an exercise in restraint, as each sentence out of Spock's mouth blooms more incredulous questions in its wake. Not true disbelief but - what? What in the holy fuck? Jim knew Spock to be a private man, especially regarding the typical private subjects but - engaged! Did she perish, with the planet? He'd never even hinted. Was it the same for his Spock, or had he mourned more deeply? What if she was alive? Did Uhura know? Had Spock already broken the engagement?
Endless questions that neither of them can answer, and all of it matters little, the circumstances of Jim's world. He can't very well hold this Spock accountable for the sins of another. Jim takes a breath, intentionally smoothing out his fingers, where they've curled against Spock's blanket-covered arm - they fan out, brushing over the knitted cable. "I'm always going to worry about you."
There's an honesty to it that Jim tries to lighten with his next sentence, huffing out a soft breath. "If I quit now, I'd need a new hobby. And I'm not that keen on finger painting."
"We're not betting your health and safety on an unknown." Spock's not budging him on this one, no way, no how. Circumstances be damned - if it could happen once, it could happen again. Seven years, at least, gave them a decent window of figuring out an alternative - besides, Jim didn't know what they'd do if they were stuck here for seven years. He'd prefer not to think about it.
"You speak of this engagement - " Jim tries not to stumble over the word, and it's a valiant effort, truly, but Spock had just described marriage or fight to the death so like, he's absorbing a lot right now. If he had ever thought a peek into the future might be a danger between the two of them, sharing the same space from different timelines, there's no way in hell he could have predicted this. " - the bond, it's more than a ring on her finger, I take it?"
In better times, in times not so infused with a shame both learned and inherited, Spock might have indicated that such burning curiosity was the core of the self. That it was the center of the being, the fabled and poeticized élan vital. To know of the universe was to know of nothing else. To chart, to disclose, to discover — that was the purpose. That was the truth he had made for himself. That was the truth that he made for himself, as he watches Jim rise, watches him settle beside. As warm as any Human, there is something in Jim's own that is harder to describe. It is something that speaks to the way that his hands shape about the memory of his, the way his body fits alongside. It is something in the light, the tangled bodies of their shadows across the hardwood flooring. No matter how Jim might lean or brush, there is something about them that must always touch.
Touching, he thinks, without touching.
He places the thought aside.
"Perhaps for the best, Captain," Spock says, a distraction from the depths of his diversion. It is difficult to give information upon something that is both formed and unformed, both unknown and recognized. Still, there is a subtler brightening to the dark of his eyes. A catch of the light. A mischief, that has survived what is sharp and raw and scrabbling. A sort of play, that curls beneath the weight of Jim's palm. If he shifts to press a clothed knee to Jim's own? It bears no examination. "Talented though you may be, I believe your strength lies not with the arts."
That James Kirk was able to quell the most complex of grumbling engines, unknot disastrous affairs with little more than what he had in his pockets? Certainly, it held no surprises. But, but a painter? He was not. His hands were meant for the physical, the practical. Fingers deft enough for the most delicate wiring, but still sturdy enough to moor, his hands were not suited for the whims of a brush or the tensing of strings. They were built to hold firmly, to grasp closely. They were meant for something substantial and tender and sure.
Sure, as they are now against the division. No matter how even Spock might read the conflict and concern in the unfurling of sinew and muscle and bone, he does not contest the sense of constancy it brings. And he recalls, momentarily, another face. Another time. Another tomorrow. Another could yet be.
As if you've always been there and always will.
"Yes," he says, voice soft as he picks along the string of earlier discussion. For those who would forget the body and sum of conversation, a moment passing among the countless, Spock remembers them all. He remembers Jim's. "These things are not unknown to me. Shame, remorse, regret — you must understand, that these controls exist because we are not Human. Where you have survived in spite of, we had nearly perished."
It is not an unknown, perhaps. Buried within historical record, marred by secrecy. Those who are as clever could smooth through the deceits, tales and poems too impassioned for a culture that knows no bloody battles, no merciless quarrelling. For all it may be questioned that no demons yet exist within the tomes and sacred imagery, there is no question to those who read it closest. There is no need for foreign fancies, no fang or tooth or claw, when one knows only green — green, upon the palms.
"This morning," he pauses, fingers working beneath the linen as though attempting to find the contours of the words. No matter compulsion or sentencing, their boundaries have always evaded a kind of capture. For all his mind might know, it as though viewing a mirage upon the cusp of the horizon. Once it arrives at the mouth, the syllables and consonants are gone. "You were subject to the depth with which we feel. The way in which I feel."
Copper turns to bronze. The throbbing of his own injuries do not register, but merely exists. As Jim thumbs along the braiding of the linens, Spock finds himself in mirror. Where it rests in neat rows along the topside, the underside is frayed. It is something that is commonplace, among such older textiles. What is worn outside need not reflect within.
"When I say it is a failing, it is because I've recognized much within myself that I cannot reconcile. But," he starts, stops again. His eyes, which had fallen again to his lap, again lift. His brows furrow, the gravity of further statements a difficulty to coax his tongue around. "I am attempting. It is something that I do attempt."
He does. It is part of what he is. Part of what each Vulcan is. To hold onto what cannot be changed — it is a poison to the self. And yet, it remains. It stays. Bitter in the heart of himself, an unripe fruit within the soft flesh of the mouth. It stings in a way that he cannot fully contain, but it eases. Gradually, as though the growth of grasses along burnt prairie. The rise of a Terran moon. But—
"It is not a bet, if one knows their 'hand.'" Spock points out, not unkindly. There is something that Jim has not quite grasped here. He does not suspect he would most immediately, given there is no such written record available to most personnel. And even then, he knows it to be vague. The vaguest kind of "assistance," he thinks, for those who live off-world. Spock glances toward his lap again, wondering the paler coloration of the threads that comprise the blanket. What he might have to do, to remove what blood now stains it. "There have been no such documented cases of occurrence without these disturbances. There too is also suggestion that should the cause be treated, the symptoms too shall pass. Vulcans would not likely survive, if these cycles were so readily truncated."
For all that he keeps such explanations clinical, it is still a challenge. To have lived within a society that has kept these periods secreted, to have learned that to lose one's sense of logic and control was of the chief indignity — something instinctive and base in Spock curls in upon itself. It struggles to take alongside it the stubborn rigidity of his spine, the balancing of his shoulders. He fights, despite the nausea that pools beneath the skin, needles and pins the curve of his lips.
Engagement, Jim asks. He knows it is again something he seeks further information on for the sake of their own safety, but—
"Both yes and no. It is neither marriage nor simple betrothal. By necessity, we are often paired at seven." As though examining nothing more than river stone and microbes, the cadence of his words draws thin around a breath. It is an understanding that he has, perhaps, but there is no fondness in their weaving. "While those who are intended most typically aim to honor the choices of their parents, not all resolve as planned. My own was one such case."
And so it was. And so too was his father's. And so too was the lot of S'chn T'gai Spock.
Jim does let out a soft laugh when Spock returns his jest, something in his chest easing with the exchange of easy words, amidst everything that's become so difficult in the past few hours. Heartened proof that no irreparable damage has been done, that there is a way back through all of this. His smile is soft, if tempered by the gravity of everything else - but still there. Through everything, the two of them are still there. "Yes, I'd have to concur with you there. I'm much better suited to the time-honored tradition of admiring of art, rather than the creation of it."
Spock, he thinks, would be good at it. Slender, long fingers, a delicate touch when he wants it to be. That was the kind of attention to detail one needed with art, not the blunt, thick-and-clumsy Jim brought to the table. Steady though Jim could be, feeding wires in carefully to a component or soldering a piece of metal - graceful and deft he was not. If Spock had the inclination for an artistic pursuit, of course; which as far as Jim is currently aware, he doesn't. Is art considered illogical, or is there a grey area Vulcans operate in? He knows of the elaborate gardens, though one could argue that they did serve a practical purpose - be it for water retention, agriculture, or diplomatic reasons (Vulcans did so love to pretend that anything entertaining was for the benefit of their illogical guests). He's read Vulcan poetry, though it's a lot more passionate circa pre-Reformation, for obvious reasons. Still, the fact that it's available for him to read at all is proof that it's believed to hold value, though how much of that is cultural versus historical, Jim couldn't say.
"And yet, you contain multitudes." Jim says gently, and far more tactfully than he had the last time they had a conversation along these lines. A different set of circumstances, another life entirely. But he knows what Spock is getting at - he read the poems, didn't he? O the night is dark and full of howls, but the day is full of screams; new dawn alights the blood, which mars the sands; green and red and black! O, to see the kiss of death upon the land!
They weren't all love poems, after all.
"Maybe it is," Jim stares at him even when Spock doesn't meet his gaze, something evaluating in his appraisal. "I know that you feel, deeply. Powerfully. More than my tiny human brain can comprehend - hell, that's why humans have tear ducts, isn't it? Somewhere to offload the limbic system when its overwhelmed."
"Where do you offload?" His hand passes over the lump of Spock's, the blanket providing a barrier, over the green dots they both know are there, hidden beneath the surface. Spock speaks of the Vulcan way of survival, but Jim could give a damn - he cares whether or not Spock survives this onslaught, whatever means necessary. Jim's lips quirk at the edges, melancholic in some ways but with a hint of private amusement as he offers Spock the words they have always traded, back and forth, worn over like the pages of an oft-read book, with diligence and loyalty and most of all, that undying quality of true friendship: "Let me help."
"Spock, you literally just said you don't know if it will ever happen again. Remind me never to take you to the casino. You would be terrible at Blackjack." He undercuts the mood with a joke, intentionally giving them some room to breathe. Jim is definitely starting to get the sense that he's treading water in uncharted territory, that there is something nameless beneath the surface he's not quite reaching yet. A shape in the water, perhaps, obfuscated just enough that he can't quite make it out - though he has a sinking suspicion it will become incredibly obvious the closer they get to it. Spock dances around the subject, the cause, and Jim's eyes squint at the corners in thought. The cause and the symptoms, the blood fever, Vulcans would not likely survive -
His mouth is far too dry as Jim gathers himself and asks, human intuition leading him to the jump Spock has so graciously laid out the stepping stones for. "...this cycle is a...er, biological...imperative?"
It's the kindest way he can think to phrase it while his brain is in the process of 404.exe erroring out, still reeling from the marriage or challenge, AKA fuck or rage monster apparently??? How in the holy fuck have the Vulcans kept that under wraps for this long? Spock's tensing, telegraphing his discomfort, and Jim tries, however much it might be in vain, to school his expression into something appropriately neutral. The shock of it surely shows in his eyes, so Jim looks away on the off-chance Spock chooses now to make eye contact, instead focusing on the blanket. The texture, woven in and out in uneven rows, though perhaps that unevenness is more their fault than that of whoever made the textile - pulling, pulling, pulling, until it comes undone, and then - there will be nothing left between them.
"An arranged marriage." Jim translates, repeating it aloud for his own sanity. Of all the ways he could have expected today to go, this was not on his Bingo card. "Spock I don't - don't quite...understand. Breaking the bond, you can't...replace it with another? Was there no other way to - satisfy - the conditions, er - to soothe the fever and uh, abate the symptoms?"
No other lovely Vulcan lady who might want a dashing Starfleet officer for a husband? Jim finds that, out of everything they've discussed so far, unequivocally the most difficult to believe.
For a moment, there is an easing of the shoulders. An agreement, looped back and between. And yet, Spock cannot help but think there is a sort of poetry in the way that Jim looks at him. A kind of art in the way of his mouth, curling at the edge. The abstract lay of freckles, the golden cast of skin—Spock recalls, for a moment, the pages of an ancient book. A tome, buried within the depths of his father’s library. Marked, he’d laid a finger upon the edge. He’d read:
And I, a sleeping moon / lightless, turn my face and palms to you / and cast upon your endless nights the bloody spill of stars.
Spock listens to the rapid thud of his heart in his ears. He feels it in his mouth, as Jim questions him. Asks him. Implores him. Let me help. How many times, he thinks, has Jim said this to him? How many times has he himself repeated it? How many times, he thinks, as he glances at Jim (for a moment, just a moment) will they both have the means to open themselves to the suggestion? Does he know?
Does Spock?
“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself,” Spock recites, the corners of his eyes crinkling just so as he looks again from Jim. It should be familiar enough to him, the poem. As familiar as most. He too knows that such a feat as quelling their emotions made little sense to Humans. It made littler sense, when it came to reconciling what was reflected upon the surface was not what lay within. But, it was these philosophies and tenets that had settled his people most. It was these philosophies and tenets, Spock knows, that saved them. How else could such a species have forged such vivid poetry? Have carved from the rock the statues draped in heady sensuality? Have made for themselves the blades of weapons that mirrored the supple curve of bodies, the bosoms of their suns? Spock shifts. It is no more than a lean of the shoulder into Jim’s, but it grounds him. It makes something in him go calm and still and quiet.
“We meditate. Play music,” he says, after a long moment. The conversation resumes, answers given. Yet, there is no hardship to be found in what next he says. “But, I find there is certain sense of peace associated with your presence.”
There almost always had been. Since the time they had first met, since his hand laid against his—but, there is more to cover. There is more to answer for. Jim presses and on and so too must Spock, it seems.
“I had meant it in connection to my nature,” he says, a near sigh of a thing. But, once the cycle had been started, it was indeed most probable that it would repeat. It did not matter, the issue of his ancestry. “However, at that time?”
Spock shakes his head.
“None. It was T'Pring who raised the challenge in the depths of my blood fever. Reason and logic — it would not have appealed to me then. It is a biological impetus, one that spares no ‘higher functioning,’ as you say." Driven only by what is primal and profane, there would have been no means to suggest anything to him. There was only the urge to claim or be claimed. To die, he thinks, or die trying. "It was you, that she chose as her champion."
Doubtlessly, Jim should view it as a cruelty. But, logic pure and true held no such considerations. It operated only within the confines of conclusion and consequence, the moving parts as sure as they are certain. It was logic that had guided T’Pring’s hand to challenge, but it was emotion that led her to Jim. If there were ever any that match Spock whilst shielding her intended, it was always Jim. It was always Jim, who might have spun him back from the ledge, who might have held him from the edge with the steel and iron of his arms. If there were anyone, anything— it would have been Jim who might have unraveled the weave of his biology. It would have been Jim, who might have convinced him.
In the end, it was T’Pring who had outpaced him. It was T’Pring, who retained face for their families. It was she, left with a taste for Human volatility, that had made the final separation. Knife in the palm, she and Stonn were free to marry. But, he had wondered if her want should serve her as well as having. He had wondered, if she too would one day be left with the doubt of her decisions as he was once left in doubt of her. The bitter dregs of knowledge, the fact that what could be was often better than what was — for now, she had her freedom. Her freedom, bought with the gravity of Spock’s loss.
Loss, he knew now, that held no permanency. Loss, that dissolved in the bright arc of Jim’s voice behind him in the pale lights of the med bay, form both warm and solid beneath Spock’s palms. For all that it is subconscious, Spock seeks it even now. In the consideration of the boundary that separates them, thread and textile, he finds himself focusing upon the press and push of Jim’s fingers against the barrier of the linen. He considers the heat of them, trapped within the fabric. He considers, but finds himself making of his own hand a bowl. An upturned cup, that Jim might tip his into.
He knows that Jim’s mind calls to him, leans across the barrier as though it were nothing more than pretense, but Spock knows he cannot heed it. He cannot not heed it, not in full. He cannot heed it, no matter the depth and willingness that lingers beneath each extended conversation, each minute tilt of his chin. To want, he thinks once again, is so different than having. And to have such brilliance caught against his own body, to learn what it is to be chained to one such as himself—
How might he presume that he should be wanted? Wanted, he knows, long-term?
"It is not so simple a thing, replacing a bond of that nature," Spock opts for instead, his dark eyes still focused upon his lap. It is easier, like this. A coward’s route, but the words came smoother. They did not attempt to trip up in the mouth, to tangle themselves irreparably behind the bank of his teeth. “As such, my options are speculative.”
He tips his head. The movement lacks a certain finesse, drags as his vision does to resettle against the far wall. He does not know how else he might place it. Fatigue settles deep into the bones.
“To establish another of that magnitude is not a decision to be made lightly. For both parties, it runs considerable risk,” he pauses, words brittle in the mouth as he finds them. Each syllable that leaves him feels as though a bruise. “If one decides it is no longer wanted, it may not be possible to sever it without injury. Moreover, a cycle spent in another’s company would serve only to strengthen it.”
Though he may not know the whole of Jim’s thoughts, Spock does know his tendencies. He knows he would offer such gifts blindly, without question or thought. He knows Jim would offer it to him, at the expense of himself – at the expense of his independence. He would offer it, out of friendship.
And Spock?
He could not allow it. He could not abide it. Not when Jim deserved his own choices, his own emotions – his own ability to love.
Sometimes, Spock's mind is a mystery to Jim. While it is true they're aligned on many things, and truer still that Jim suspects he might know Spock the deepest of anyone he's ever known - sometimes, the looks he gives him are indecipherable. Jim has always found it best to just meet Spock's dark gaze, to accept the unknowable; that in some instances, perhaps Jim's presence is all that's truly required, as Spock sifts through the rest, spilling the endless grains of sand between his fingertips.
The poem gets another gentle laugh out of Jim, a titter that's quiet, relatively, but louder in the space between them. Of course Spock knew Whitman - hell, Jim already knew that he did - but the fact that it was so rare to find something Spock didn't know was something of a delight. And a pastime of Jim's, especially now with a physical library at their disposal. Spock leans into him, and Jim rocks back against him, a gentle sway and nudge of their shoulders, before he too stills, comfortable. If it's a human fallacy, so be it, but with Spock at his side, where Jim can offer whatever support his friend will be willing to accept from him - there's nothing they can't weather, right?
"Congratulations," Jim snorts, shaking his head good-naturedly, before he tips it up to catch Spock's eye. "You're the first person to ever string those words together and aim them at me."
But he can't deny it's pleasing to hear, as plainly as Spock was ever likely to say it. Truer still that Jim felt the same way - he always had, and had been identifying it more explicitly since their tenure here in Aldrip together began. Jim squeezes his arm through the blanket once more in tacit agreement, canting his head to listen as Spock continues to power through his explanation. And power through he does - of course it would be Jim. Who else? It's all starting to make some horrible amount of sense, the scene playing itself out in Jim's mind's eye in technicolor, too vivid. He's been at the other end of Spock's fists, tasted copper and seen stars - and that was an iota of what he could have done. Stripped of all logic? Jim's not sure how he would have even begun to have fought him - but he does know he would have tried.
It seems T'Pring - and now he's got a name to add to the shitlist, good - knew the same. It presents itself like a coward's loophole to Jim, one that would leave her and whomever her true champion was entirely unscathed. Did she know what it would do to Spock? Did she care? Worse, had she counted on it? Where is the logic in cruelty, in savaging another to get what you desired? Was that not the whole point of switching to a system of logic - to avoid such uncivilized mauling of the soul?
The ire it inspires, Jim swallows, burying it deep in the center of his chest. Secrets it away, as Spock leans closer, bridges the divide, tells him without words what it is he needs. His hand, a tentative half-moon beneath the fabric, and Jim mimics the motion with care, letting them come together with gentleness that belays the fury on Spock's behalf. Whatever Spock needs - whatever he is willing to accept from Jim - it is his. It always has been, and perhaps it's not as subtle as either of them might have thought, if T'Pring could see it plainly enough to abuse it but - this is their way of things.
If this is all there is, too, Jim is willing to give it. Willing to live in the permanency of their friendship, and be grateful for it. He thinks that it might not be all, though, after last night - that the things they do not say are closer to the surface than they appear, rising closer and closer still. It's not the right time for this discussion (God, when is it ever?), complicated further by all of this. Jim gaze traces the contours of Spock's face before he looks away, ingrained politeness as Spock speaks - it feels too private, and he's sure his own expression is less and less controlled as he absorbs the information.
"...I see." It's too fantastical, really, for him to fully grasp it. To be fair, it's not as though he has any similar concept by which to understand it except just that - the fantastical. Bonds, so deep and inextricable as to be integral to the whole - like destiny, or fate, or the other intangibilities that surround age-old stories of true love. That they could exist without the imagined love being there is - hard to understand, in full. Upsetting, in truth, that Spock should be left without, that he should be endangered by the lack. Jim frowns, well on his way to the suggestion Spock had already predicted - though it remains shapeless, for the moment. "And you can't subside the fever without a bond?"
No life-saving sex before marriage, evidently. The shapeless begins to take its form, understanding starting to connect behind Jim's eyes like gossamer filaments, drawing together to illustrate the whole. He lets the beat of silence pervade, just the two of them sitting on the edge of the bed, sunlight rising on the opposite wall as the sun crawls higher into the sky, lighting up the morning.
"You didn't tell him any of this." It's not a question, because Jim doesn't need a forced confirmation on something he already knows to be true. Knows, because of course Spock wouldn't, not unless - well, unless he were compelled. Literally.
The why sits there in the air, begging Jim to take it. To ask, when Spock must answer. But the thought makes him feel vaguely ill, the idea of taking more than Spock is willing to give. Or, perhaps, of hearing an answer he was not meant to know. Spock did lash out, only minutes ago, and Jim didn't want to press that further. Years of love have been forgot / in the hatred of a minute.
The silence stretches, all that is unspoken laid at their feet. Jim sighs, tipping his head back, and maybe it's an excuse not to have to look at Spock and betray the nerves that bubble up from somewhere inside of him, but hell, he'll let himself have this one. "There is only one thing in this universe I would never forgive you for, Spock."
Jim drops his gaze from the ceiling, centering it on Spock's again, hand squeezing his through the fabric. "Leaving me, before your time. The rest - we can handle. Together, not - not on your own."
"Just - " Jim doesn't know how to say it. How to wrap all that is and was and will be up in a single sentence, or even ten sentences, twenty - to press home how much he means it. That nothing Spock could ever ask of him would be as unacceptable as him leaving, as him harming himself for whatever reason he deemed justifiable. As intolerable as Spock rooting himself in Jim's life, and making the decision by himself to walk out of it. It may not be a crazy Vulcan marriage mind bond, but Jim's sure it would kill him just as similarly. "Just don't, okay?"
And it is perhaps those things that Spock did not know, that Spock did not yet comprehend that made life so curious.
It is illogical to think that anyone should know everything in space and time, that anyone should grasp the enormity of what could be and was and is as a whole. To Spock, there was always more to learn. There was always more to improve. There was always another mountain to climb once the previous was conquered in a steadier stride than the one before it. To grow and to change held more esteem and more appeal than remaining than same, but there too came the pain of existence. There too came the stranger agonies, the absolutes that one cannot be shielded from no matter the method or training.
Spock had learned it young. He had learned it in the turn of Vulcan's bright suns, in the nights that engulfed the horizon. He had learned it from the day he was born, a child of science and consequence. For all he was placed upon the consciousness of his world a miracle, he too was considered abomination. He too was challenged by dual and dueling expectations, those who would come to adore and revile him for all the wrong reasons. To most, perhaps it would be enough to hamper the fires that licked at the fabric of himself. To others, perhaps it would be foolish of him not to lash out more than he had against the narrow paths they'd tried to lay for him. But —
There is a certain pleasure, in learning with Jim. Charting what has not yet been charted, being the first to brush against the soils of new and unseen planets — seeing Jim, alight with an interest that too suffused him. Folding botanical specimens into his palm, craning his neck to peer into the stars that hung again above their heads, there was nothing that could keep Jim from movement. From chasing, Spock thinks, the same and binary formations.
And Spock?
Even now, he follows the pattern of his Captain's words, leans into the spaces where Jim welcomes him. His cupped palm in his through the fabric, the simmer of Spock's emotions distant enough not to harm him — he curls his fingers. Linens bunched and smoothed over the backs of Jim's knuckles, he maps the approximate shape of each valley and dip that lies between each finger, feels the heat of palm as it bleeds through the bulk of the blanket. He does not know what it is Jim thinks, what it is he feels, but Spock might take his guesses. He might speculate.
"I find it difficult, to think that I have not already said this," he says, words low and solemn. "Indirectly, perhaps. I find it more difficult still, to think that no one else has too."
And now? He might assume, feeling the weight of Jim's eyes against him. He might form theories, knowing how it is they trace the shape of his profile. He might confirm, within error, as he glances up and away.
"No," he says, the word a burr in the heat as it is in the chest. It prickles along the soft flesh of his throat, his dark eyes sweeping lower to the floor again beneath them. It is an answer to both. To each in turn. He knows it to be useless, to refuse the rest to rise with it. He feels the barest twinge of an ache forming at the base of his skull, the shudder of something deeper and more profound bubbling up the surface. "I could not have told him. I did not..."
He takes a breath. The tail of it hitches strange and dark and sharp.
"I could not have asked this of him. Under those circumstances, without the full knowledge of what it would entail... Knowing, that even a temporary bond might remain."
He knows he need not specify why. Not this time. The information has been given, laid in such a way that it would be difficult to miss. The fear that Jim may tire of him, might grow to resent him when he may have chosen only to bind himself to Spock out of obligation —
Spock focuses upon his own respiration. He counts. The pain he feels now is unrelated to the pain the sentencing casts upon his person. It is a mental one, intertwined with the physical. To grant such emotion without pause, without his own means and methods — it takes a moment. It takes a moment, to pull back into himself. Wrenched open, it takes time to gather the scattered aspects of what makes him him.
And, perhaps, it is all for naught when it is Jim avoids his eyes as Spock chooses now to take him in. An upward tilt of his head to pair his, chest vising about the profundity of what it is Jim tells him. What it is he asks him, as though Spock were something to be missed in ways that were deemed unfathomable. Unforgivable, should it have been in some way prevented.
Spock does not speak. Not for a long moment. The words tangle up in his throat, catch against the back of his teeth. The weight of what he might say and could say makes the backs of his eyes burn, makes of itself an effort to find the words that have so often alluded him.
And still, his hand grasps back at Jim's.
"Jim," he says, finally, the name a soft and tender thing in the mouth. It dissolves at the end, searching and so rarely uncertain. "There are always risks. Were it to come between myself and you, you are the Captain. Without you, I..."
He pauses. To his ear, the sailors are calling out at the docks. The ocean ebbs and flows, unimpeded. But, to Spock, all there is this bedroom. All there is himself. Jim.
"There is no time, where I would find myself compelled to choose myself above you," he continues, voice soft enough to be missed were Jim not pressed as close as he now is. "You cannot die. I know it is illogical — selfish. But," he takes another breath, gaze dropping again to the tangle of their covered palms and fingertips.
"I will do only what I can," he says, quiet and resolute. It is as much as he might give to him. As much as he might vow. "I will promise you my cooperation. To be more... Forthright, with what I might singularly control."
Jim had known from a very young age that he was not meant for the planet beneath his feet. Born on the shuttle, it was as though he'd been searching all his life for a way to return. He remembers sitting in the observation deck, on the ship bound for Earth after his disastrous colony experience, bony knees pulled up to his chin, watching the light streak by. How strange, that a child should turn to the stars for comfort. Perhaps it was because planets had never done him any favors - but when Pike had asked him, do you think you were destined for more?, they had both known Jim had only one answer.
There is a reason Jim and Spock get along, beyond a shared love of chess and similar taste in books. There is an insatiable desire for more that lurks beneath their skin, that certain quality that sends people like them up to the stars, instead of staying dirtside. There are those who are meant to stay in one place, and there are those who are meant to walk into the unknown - though if they're being honest, the pair of them were running, more often than not.
Jim doesn't think he could do it with anyone else by his side, truth be told. There is no one else he is as in sync with, no one else whose thirst for knowledge rivals his own. It is, perhaps, one of the qualities Jim most greatly admires in Spock - and that list, admittedly, is quite long.
"Would I lie to you?" Jim jokes, though it lands more gently than it should to be fully effective as a jest. Maybe it's because Spock is holding his hand again, even through the fabric of the blanket, like it's his tether to tranquility, to keeping his feet on the ground throughout all of the morning's chaos. Jim lets him, keeps still and covered beneath the fabric, save for when Spock's fingers map out his second knuckle, the scar tissue there, hand twitching to meet him. "Seems we make good company, then."
Inappropriate though it most certainly is, a part of Jim wants to laugh, the hard sound bubbling in his chest, begging for freedom. He tamps down on the urge - it's not born from humor, but that kind of desperate disbelief that occurs when someone is being so monumentally ridiculous. He's smart enough to pick up what Spock is putting down, what he's laying so tentatively at Jim's feet, as though he would ever dare to kick at it - but it's almost beyond the pale, truly.
Jim can't imagine a world where he turns Spock down, Vulcan brain bond or not. He can only hope the other Jim didn't give Spock a reason to think that he would, because then Jim will have to kick his own ass, and hopefully that doesn't rip a hole in spacetime or something equally ridiculous.
"Spock," Jim finally starts, glad that they're not touching skin on skin, that Spock cannot feel the whirlwind of emotions he's cycled through in the beat of silence between their sentences. He can probably intuit it well enough, God only knows what Jim's expression looks like now, but he squeezes Spock's hand through the blanket, firm and grounding. "You misunderstand. You're not asking, because it's not a question."
"If I were suffering from the same," Perhaps putting it another way will get it through Spock's head. Jim tilts his head, fixing Spock with the full weight of his gaze. "Would it be a question, for you?"
Jim sighs quietly, an exhalation of air that eases the tightness in his chest as Spock begins to speak. Starting with Jim; somehow, Spock says his name like no one ever has. Like it's something precious, like he's afraid Jim's going to revoke his right to it. It never fails to capture Jim's attention, to seat something warm in the pit of his stomach. Amidst the anxiety, the precariousness of this entire conversation - that flower still manages to bloom.
The rest is -
Jim's pretty sure his brain needs a reboot, or he needs to wake from a coma or something, because it just doesn't even seem like hearing those words out of Spock's mouth could have been real. It's dangerously close to something else entirely, something that Jim doesn't even know how to begin unpacking, in addition to everything else this morning.
Blessedly, Spock doesn't ask him to. Once again, he's glad they're not touching, skin to skin, so Spock doesn't have to feel the wave of guilt that laps at him as he says, you cannot die. Once was more than enough for the both of them, it seemed.
"I'm not asking you to," Jim says quietly, squeezing Spock's hand back - perhaps too tightly, but it helps, to feel him solid, real beside him. There is, perhaps, a part of him that is grateful he was the one behind the radiation glass - Jim's not sure what he would have done if their fates were reversed, and he had to watch Spock slump, lifeless, on the other side. "Not unless - if it's necessary, in our line of work."
Even as he says it, Jim is well aware of the irony and hypocrisy in his words - he went back for Spock, violated the Prime Directive with barely a thought, lost his ship and his rank because of it - and he'd do it all again, no hesitation. Spock, in this instance, likely wouldn't listen - but Jim would be remiss if he didn't say it anyway.
"Me too." Another squeeze to their covered hands, and Jim leans into him, brushing their shoulders together. "I promise. All we've got is each other, Spock. I can't...I can't do this without you."
One could claim willful blindness and assume Jim means Aldrip and all the situation entails, but Jim knows that they're both aware he means it in the larger sense. Still, after everything Spock's told him - everything he's been forced to tell him, in addition to everything he's chosen to - the least Jim can do is return a little of the honesty, perhaps in the way they communicate best.
"I cannot live without my life." Jim's smile is soft, shoulder a warm point of contact between them. "I cannot live without my soul."
There had always been more to the missions, to the endless spill of endless stars. There had always been a steady and easy rapport, a willingness to answer the other in ways that could not and would not have meshed with another not to their exacting tastes. Jim, for all that he was at once steady and restless, was the only that seemed to contain the curiosity that made of Spock a haven. It was he that steered Spock upon paths more emotive, more permissive of the Humanity that lurked beneath the surface without naming it for what it was. And it was Spock, that made Jim consider what was factual and calculated. When Jim could not sense that something was off, it was Spock who might have informed him. And Jim, he thinks, Jim—
There is no other that knows Spock like Jim does. There is no other that knows Jim. Spock holds what is secreted against the ribcage, stows it within the metaphorical spaces of his Vulcan heart. He understands the nights where Jim cannot sleep, knows the strength of his tea, knows the way his hands move when he is aimless. He knows that his compassion has endangered him many a time, but it is such a trait that Spock could never find himself in distaste. There will never be another that knows them as know each other. There will never be another, so long as it is they both live.
But, to Jim’s question: what else might Spock do? He shakes his head, more implicit than not, the shadowed corners of his lips curving in a way that only Jim might call upon. He knows that Jim would never lie to him. Not if he could help it. Not if it was not otherwise demanded of him. It is something Spock himself had to do once. It had brought him no pleasure, to disguise it from him. But – Spock listens. He listens, through the heavy buzz that settles over his skin, that turns less pleasant stimulus to a needling throb. Spock keeps close anyway, holds to Jim anyway, as though the idea of separation was a far more intolerable a concept. He feels Jim’s eyes upon him, a heavy and tangible weight.
He meets Jim’s attentions. Spock knows no other way.
“No,” he says, the word a confession and promise both. He tastes the declaration upon his tongue, smoke and embers. It stings, but it does not burn. Not in truth. When it is something he has known from the beginning, how might its appearance have taken him off-guard? How may it have injured Spock, when it is a wound as obvious as the inevitable impulses that would subsume him in the pursuit of keeping Jim where he ought to be – to ensure he remained where it was he belonged? “You are the one I could never refuse.”
It is no revelation, no sudden epiphany. He had known it from the time he’d rested his palm against Jim’s in the galley, young as they both were then. He had known it from the moment he had completed Jim’s sentence for him, plucked his emptied glass from the table as he reached for it to place upon a passing tray. There had been no mistaking it, no matter how he had run all these long years.
“Jim,” he pours over to him, his name more the hush of a supplicant in Spock’s mouth than any other iteration. It is a question, a query – a verification. It is all three in sum, Spock knows, as he finds within himself the shape of the words that wish to come pair with Jim’s. As he tips his head in mirror, the brush of Jim’s shoulder an anchor in turn to him.
“He’s more myself than I am,” Spock recites, his dark eyes searching. Even if Spock might discern the shape of the boundary, there is something within him that cannot believe what it is. Such things were never built for him, were never permitted. Such things were fable and legend, but how else might Spock have known him? Jim, no matter the slope of his nose or the curl of his lips. Jim, his freckles displaced as though new constellations. His eyes, the color of the birds that made within the Forge their nests and sung sweet and soft and high. Spock grips back, knowing innately the strength and pressure that would suit him. “Whatever our souls are made of…”
He pauses, allows Jim the opportunity to confirm what it is he has settled upon. For all that Spock has grasped it as fact, Jim has not been made aware of it yet. He has not been made truly cognizant, though Spock may have suspected, may have theorized, may have made guesses both educated and – he holds Jim’s gaze. He holds it, as though to look away would be to flinch from the inevitable crescendo. To lose, Spock thinks, what it is that they have built between them all these long and lonely years no matter the distance and time and circumstances. No matter, Spock knows, the infinitesimal possibility that they would ever come to meet at such a point and in such a place.
Jim is a wanderer, if not by nature, then by nurture. It's probably a mix of both, if Jim's being totally honest with himself. Perhaps the call to the stars had less to do with the expanse of the universe, laid out in front of him, and more to do with the fact that he wasn't going to find his pointy-eared counterpart with two feet stuck to the ground - and some part of him knew it, somewhere deep and instinctual. He could not have guessed at the beginning all that would come to pass between them, any more than he could have guessed what was next for them here, in their current predicament - except couldn't he, though? From the very first, when their eyes had locked over a sea of red - didn't he know, somehow?
Spock had known, both times Jim had found him, out of the blue. In the cave, the entire situation had all felt like the weirdest kind of nightmare, and Jim had never examined it too closely. It was too painful, too wrapped up in everything else, and then the meld with Spock Prime had well and truly turned Jim's thoughts from the matter, his entire mind and memory shying away from the encounter. How had he known, so immediately? The memories he'd gleaned from the Spock next to him - Jim didn't look like his Prime equivalent. Sure, he was close enough - same dirty blond hair, an approximation of the same build. Perhaps his eyes would be the same shade of hazel, were it not for the circumstances of his birth. But he could just as easily have been any other random Starfleet officer, stumbling around on the docks - how had Spock known?
At this point, the question is moot well, for the next paragraph or so, interesting though it may be. Jim knows Spock better at this point than he knows even himself; knows the shape his vowels take when he's tired, knows the cut of his cheek, when Spock is contemplating his next move in a round of chess. Knows the light in his eyes that can only come from the excitement of discovering something previously unknown to him; knows the steadiness of his presence, in the face of every adversity the universe has thought to throw at them. He knows Spock, and this Spock - day in and day out, sharing not just a house but building a home, a life together, for whatever that ended up being worth in the end - he knows him all but completely.
Spock does not shy away from him, allows their heads to draw together as they sit there, talking, and the relief is an easy thing, lingering barely-contained beneath Jim's skin. As much as the admission to Jim's question may be coerced, it seems to come easy to Spock's lips - it's the truth, and in the middle of this frankly bananas conversation, not one that is a hardship to bear.
You are the one I could never refuse.
Jim might not be fully aware of just how deeply Spock means that, but he doesn't need the details, nor the Council's bullshit compulsion, to know Spock is telling him the truth. He holds Spock's gaze, meets that secreted shade of a smile with an understanding one of his own; more pronounced, always, in the areas where Spock is predisposed to subtlety.
"Finally, Mr. Spock." Jim doesn't look away, doesn't cheapen his words with a joke, though the undercurrent of humor is present - how can it not be, when the idea that Jim would ever choose another option has been spoken aloud (as if there was ever a choice to be made, that it was not simply a foregone conclusion, and whatever 'sacrifice' Spock perceived it to be, Jim would give it gladly)? "We've found something we agree on."
And then Spock continues, pulling them past the borders of anything they've charted before, and out into the unknown.
That he quotes Brontë back at him is really Jim's own fault - he set himself up for that one, he can't deny it. The intense eye contact is also to be expected, to a certain degree - but Spock does not look away. Jim stares back at him, caught like space dust in the inescapable gravity of a passing moon. Spock refuses to lessen the impact of his words, to couch them in something more along the lines of their usual back and forth - instead content to let them lie plainly between them - with nothing to follow them but the blank Jim is filling in: whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
The understanding dawning on his expression would be comical, if it weren't so utterly bewildering. Jim blinks, then blinks again, all too aware of the drag of the seconds as they idle by, lost to the silence that pervades between them. He's no walking chronometer, like his companion here, but it's got to be a good sixty seconds before he looks away and exhales a jittery, amused huff of air - too breathy to be an actual laugh - breaking the stillness.
And yet, when Jim's gaze returns to him, Spock continues looking at him like that, not taking the out, patient as ever - and Jim's axis tilts a little further.
"...you're serious." Not a question, and not another bit of poetry, passed between them like folded notes on a playground, because for all they've bantered previously, this is certainly the boldest either of them have been - and Spock's deviating pretty severely from their previously established patter. It's not reading like flowery language, but a confirmation of - what? Even thinking it brings some color to his face. "You think - bullshit."
The word slips out, capping the sentence that Jim can't even say out loud - can't put the thought into words other than Brontë's lyrical language, without risk of embarrassing himself. He hasn't pushed Spock away, hasn't moved to free himself from their configuration atop the cedar chest, but Jim's brow does furrow, hands squeezing Spock's through the blanket - though whether it's a conscious choice or instinct, it's hard to tell. "Sorry, that wasn't - I didn't mean - I don't understand."
Doesn't he, though? Somewhere deep, somewhere instinctual - there is something within him that calls for Spock, always. That Spock is acknowledging it must mean - it must mean he senses it, too. What.
It is later, that Spock will find himself beneath the thrall of a greater exhaustion than he might have recalled in recent years. It is later, when he is between sleep and waking, that he will curl as though a Terran cat beneath the lay of fresh linens, feel his body attempt to adjust to the persistent roll and sway his vestibular system erroneously interprets.
It is here, that he will admit that the feeling he possessed in the silence between Jim’s denial and his retraction was a singular and simmering dread.
To be so swiftly followed by relief, tentative and fearful – Spock’s throat bobs, as he watches him. His lips part. And, no matter how patient and still he might appear to Jim, there is a tension that only releases from the curve of his shoulders when Jim speaks, processes. In whole or in part, it does not matter. It is then, and only then, that Spock draws breath again. All else seems… Secondary, to be broached later no matter how much a temporary balm it might have been for them.
“Yes,” he says. Without hesitation, without emphasis, without any such gravity that would make most consider why it was they had said as they did to begin with, Spock passes the answer over to him. He hands it to him, as one would hand one a flower – with the certainty that one should wrap their fingers about its stalk, hold it to their chest without suffocation. And yet, beneath even that – he watches.
“I…” Spock starts, pauses. The words will come as they are bid, but there is something in Spock that prickles at the notion. The information that has been wrenched from the secreted parts of him, the irritants formed by age and weather into misshapen pearls – they are not another’s to do with as they please. They are not another’s to hold between their teeth, to make a mockery of. They are not theirs to sample, to sieve for what is worthy. No, Spock thinks, these have always belonged to him.
“There is a word, to describe such connections,” he begins again, a shallow stitch forming between the dark of his brows. He thinks of the times his mother would wear such similar expressions, how it took so much will not to simply reach across and smooth it. Smooth it, in recognition and commiseration, with the meat of his thumb. “A term.”
He wonders if Jim often finds such impulses, wonders if he feels them as acutely as he does. In the mornings, where the wild sweep of Jim’s hair ventures into angles once unknown to man, he wonders if Jim too has caught himself more than once. Has caught himself more than once, pulling his hand back and away when Spock does not see it. Even now, his hands seem to itch. They itch, as Jim’s too seem to, grasping as he does for both of Spock’s beneath the linens. Spock finds himself unwilling, but not unable, to not squeeze his hands in response.
Jim needs it more than he does, he reasons. He knows it is in part a falsehood, but there is neither harm nor illogic in providing what is needed across. And there is not illogic, Spock thinks, in the feeling that he carries with him. Still, he does not place blame upon Jim for his reaction. To himself, such a notion seemed improbable. Impossible, perhaps. But, was it not Jim who did not believe in such declarations? Was it not Spock who, despite his better judgement, began to believe in such concepts too?
Spock’s dark eyes search him, gaze touching upon the spaces between the curve of a brow, the cut of a cheek. That Jim has looked back at all is something he had not in full anticipated, but it surprises him little in the aftermath. So often, it had been Spock who had flinched first. Who had, in full, the reason such a conversation began to start. His refusals, his inability to allow himself to want—
“You have been to me a friend, a brother. A… Companion, in all things,” Spock says, the syllables turning over his tongue as a Human within their peculiar confessionals, their perceived misdeeds spoken through velvet and lattice to the one who might hear them upon the other side. And yet, it is not himself that he had committed such injustices toward. It was not Jim, who had been at fault. “I had once told you, that to feel friendship for you caused me great shame. It was not you, who I was ashamed of.”
His fingers twitch. Ache blooms anew in the pit of his chest, in the pit of his stomach. The world beyond Jim is flat and static, the heat of the summer tart and sour on his tongue. Jim’s eyes are so blue and so disbelieving, but there is something in them. No matter how unable he is to understand the complexities of Human emotion, he too carries them. For all he might deny that they exist, they still dog him. Fang and tooth at the heel, they are as much his own as they are Jim’s.
“This… Concept. It is the singular one I might ascribe to you. ‘Friend,’ as a Human definition, does not exist in our lexicon. It is only this.”
With gentle intention and with the meat of his thumb, he presses the word into the skin. Letter by letter, he uses the codes that they know – he taps it out to him. T’hy’la. A summary, a legend, something spoken about sparingly among those scholars who would dig into the brutal and bloodied rituals that once so defined them. Vulcans, who cleaved space for themselves under and amid the net of the stars. That Spock uses the language of others to portray the depth of his thoughts, the depths of his… Regard is only circumstantial. It is the only way he might have felt capable of, until held to the knife of some instated consequence. And even then, who was to say that he should deserve this? Who is to say that he should have such an opportunity to want?
Still, ahead of all that pushes him forward toward the inundation of information, he tells Jim. He implores, syllables breaking soft at the swell of his own lip.
“That I found you that day at the pier – it was no accident. I felt you, as I have felt you before. I knew, no matter how illogical it should appear to you, that you were Jim.”
It wasn’t. He recalls it. He recalls it, across the scent of sea and sand. He remembers it, vivid as anything else he might hold frame of his memories. Jim, disoriented and unsteady. Jim, who looked upon him as he most often looked upon him. A relief, a comfort.
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."
And isn't it remarkable, that one might find another through any given lifetime? That such an existence — so singular and fragmented as his own —, might find itself in pair instead of wholly apart?
When he was young, Spock had once wondered what it was that made him so abhorrent. He puzzled over their dismissive words, the way the would not even meet his eyes. He questioned, with his hand held within his mother's, what it was he had done to deserve it.
There are those who will dislike you no matter the cause, she had told him. Overlooking the courtyard, the gardens in full bloom — he had wondered how much more she had endured. Before and after him, how much was she given to carry? What more might she do? He hadn't understood, not then. He had not understood, what it was to hold something so sacred and secreted. He had not understood — still cannot —, why it was she had chosen his father. Had chosen, also, Spock. Upon a planet that told itself its denizens did not love, there was much to unweave in the makings of him to begin with.
There was much to untangle. There is, even now. And in that, Spock thinks with some unfurling wonder and disbelief, is the question: is it really me you choose?
Is it really him, who knows not the final shape of his wanderings? Who does not want what he cannot have? Who cannot express himself as a Human, no matter the Humanity in him? Him, who is conflicted and ugly at the foundations? Him, who carries the depth and breadth of emotion? It would not be the first time that his feelings would be considered repulsive. It would not be the last time that others would find them oppressive too, heavy in the lay of its head.
But, Jim does not pull from him. He pulls in. He pulls in, as his expression flickers through the tides of any number of emotions. Spock cannot name them all as they rise and sink and surface, but he might know they are reflected. Reflected, perhaps, in whole or in part. And yet —
Once Jim settles upon a conclusion, it is difficult to sway him. It is something that Spock himself knows. It is something, too, that Jim attributes to him in the moments where Spock does not bend even beneath the playful pressure to admit a hunch, a notion. An inkling, that belongs where logic does not. But, there is also logic in this. There is also logic in the mystic, in the otherwise indefinable. It had never been a question that Spock would come to trust Jim, that somehow — inexplicably —, the fissures in himself were a match for Jim's own. When all other conclusions were thus examined and discarded, what else might it be?
Spock's mind has known Jim's from the beginning. Jim's soul had answered his katra's call. How might he have discovered him otherwise? How might have he have thus found in every iteration, in every timeline? The universe is endless in its possibilities, but somehow — somehow, they found themselves repeated. Again and again and again.
Any such words that Spock may have uttered are quieted by the intent that lies behind Jim's movement. They gum up in the throat, still beneath the heat and the warmth and Jim's alien scent. It is all that he remembers and all that he recalls, but there is a fresher comfort in it. Like rains after a long drought, the parched soil blackening — Spock feels the kiss he presses to his shoulder like a physical brand. It burns him through the layers of his clothes, settles deep into the core of him. How might Jim have ever questioned that it would be him? How might Jim have never said —
Spock finds himself wishing he might touch him directly. He finds himself wishing to hold Jim's face in his hands, to see him as though he is first seeing him again. He thinks of mapping the spaces between his brow and his eyelid, of sweeping his fingers about the clever twist of his lips. He wishes for so many things, in this one moment, but knows this will have to serve him. That his eyes might do the touching that his body desires, Jim's breath so close to his ear — it seems an obvious choice, to answer in kind.
His hands keep Jim's cradled from just beneath the blankets, but it he who angles himself just so as to press his lips to the crown of his head. More concept than touch, he settles back only after he might find what he wishes to say on his tongue.
"It seems we agree," he says, syllables soft in the mouth. Spock thinks of the golden fields of Jim's memory, thinks of the hands that ran their way through the reaching grasses. "I had... Hesitated to think, that you may have reciprocated."
His mouth quirks at the edges. It is less a smile with the mouth than it is with the eyes, lit-up from within as candles within hurricane glass. He knows the quote Jim chooses well, but it is here that Spock turns over his own.
It makes sense, that Spock would be mystified by something so wholly human; that most illogical paradigm of love. Vulcans loved - of course they did, no matter what they claimed - but the way humans did it, the way his mother would have, must have seemed so foreign. With openness, considered vulgar by Vulcan standards; without shame, without apology - without regret and at great personal cost, leaving her species behind. For what, for why, as Spock had so astutely asked?
Because she loved Sarek, and she loved their child. The idea that there need be further reasons would never have occurred to her. It certainly doesn't to Jim - it's the kind of love he's always starved for, deep down. Unconditional, permanent. He stopped believing it was real, long ago - but hope, and dreams, they're difficult beasts to kill. Who wouldn't take the hard road, with that kind of love waiting for you at the end of it?
But that is not why Jim cares for him; it's never been about what Spock can offer him. To be frank, Jim had never thought he would have been lucky enough to get that far. It's definitely not because of whatever strange, incomprehensible bond ties them together, across multiple planes of reality - no, it's a simple fact that Jim's never been very good at doing something just because someone tells him to. He chooses Spock, as he is, as he's always been, because sometimes Spock beats him at chess, and sometimes he beats Spock, but never once do they let the other win. He chooses Spock because when Jim burns their vegetarian lasagna dinner, Spock already has the windows open, one eyebrow raised at his ridiculousness. Jim chooses Spock, because to be without him is a reality he does not wish to live in. The thought is intolerable enough he trashed his career for it, and he'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Caring for him is not the hardship that Spock purports it to be. Jim has never understood that - this is where he is, admittedly, the mystified one. How anyone could look at Spock and be repelled seems nonsensical. Intimidated, maybe that he could understand - it was natural to be intimidated by someone you couldn't quite read, but to dislike him? The kind, intelligent soul Jim has come to know? Where's the logic in that?
Jim doesn't think he'll ever stop wondering how this feeling could be reciprocated - that Spock should choose him over any other - but maybe that's okay. Love, after all, is not logical, even for a Vulcan; perhaps Jim should stop expecting it to be.
Spock leans in, and Jim has to consciously release the breath he didn't realize he was holding, heat rising to his cheeks. It's whole-heartedly chaste by anyone's standards, but it still makes his heart leap against his ribcage; embarrassingly so, and it's only the two of them there. Spock's lips press against his hair, the presence of him solid, magnetizing. Closer than they've ever been, save life-threatening situations. They've shared a bed for months, but this is an active choice and it's - different.
He can't very well say he's not feeling the same pull, the urge to express himself in a more human - and decidedly less restrained - manner, but the urge to spare Spock further pain is stronger. To spare himself, too, because if Spock accidentally zaps him through his face he'll probably pass out, which would really kill the vibe.
"Makes no damn sense that there's something to reciprocate, and I'm not on an island by myself, but I can't say I'm complaining." Jim laughs, something nervous and jittery within it but also, perhaps, something freeing, bumping his head against Spock's shoulder one more time before he pulls back, enough to meet his gaze. Spock seems - the only word Jim can ascribe to it is radiant, which seems an odd thing to say about a Vulcan, he's well aware. But it's true, in comparison to the rest of Spock's minute expressions and emotional, human-like eyes - Jim's never seen him look like that. Certainly never aimed at him.
"Neither have I. Not...not like this." Jim admits in return; it seems only right to be truthful, even if it's mildly terrifying, when Spock's verifiable truth is ringing in his ears. I have never held such regard for anyone. Holy fucking shit. "I would never want to jeopardize our friendship. Before I - I just have to say that, Spock, out loud, so you understand. If you ever...didn't reciprocate. It would be okay."
Jim blows out a breath; this entire conversation has been an emotional rollercoaster the likes of which he's not sure he's ever ridden in his entire life, let alone in the span of about an hour. He squeezes Spock's hands again, tight, gaze trailing back up to him. "You must be tired. I can make some tea, if you want to lay down for a spell."
A mirror of their own doubts of the self, reflected in kind. What Jim sees within Spock is in part mystery to him beyond the merits he provides, but Spock finds within Jim more than he might hold against any reasonable metric. What had drawn Spock to Jim had been a point of confusion at first, but it was difficult not to find himself fascinated by a mind that was so quick and so empathetic — so compassionate, but at once ferocious. It was one that might have matched his, was glad to have his considerations. Over tea and over PADDs, they had discussed any number of topics. He had saved Spock, as much as Spock had sought to save him. He had never left Spock behind. Had never abided by his logic, when it was himself as the price.
Jim challenged him, pushed him. Gentle, always careful, he had coaxed Spock to consider that he was a part instead of apart. He had looked upon him, known him to as he was and is. Accepted it. Accepted it, as Spock came to accept him. Jim was not perfect, but neither was he. They covered what the other lacked. They provided each other considerable strength. Jim to Spock was a keystone — if he were to be removed, he should wonder what would be left. Now so entwined in the nature of his being, it was a concept that bid him to run as much as it rooted him. It was logical (illogical), but it was no less true.
Jim was the only one he might have chosen. There was never any other, that captured him so thoroughly. There was never any other, that smiled over the board at him and plucked from him the vulnerabilities and anxieties. There was never any other, that looked upon his insecurities and saw them as beautiful, a component of him instead.
But, even as they both lean just so out of the other's orbits, Spock hears the nerves that are so repeated in him. Such admissions are never simple, but this — it is a remarkable thing, to know what he does now. He would never have expected it. He would never have thought it possible. He had never allowed himself to want it. Yet, Jim has his own concerns. His own worries. His own thoughts and his self-detractions. Spock knows them. He knows them, but he knows too that Jim must know this.
"Jim," he starts, spinning his rapidly scattering words into loose constellations. A line that starts, he thinks, and ends. "Please understand, Vulcans do not engage in such commitments lightly. We are intentional, focused. We do so only with those who are compatible, who ideally hold traits we find... Compelling." He tips his head, dark eyes gentled in their assessment. But yet, they assess. They look. As though waiting for any flicker of uncertainty, any ounce of repulsion. His posture has loosened, but there is still something guarded in the downward sweep of lashes, the suggestion of a furrow between his angled brows. "Once chosen, it will take much for me to consider otherwise."
It will. Jim has earned his loyalty, his devotion. He has earned Spock's respect. He knows not when his emotions toward Jim veered into something akin to adoration, to the shape of unvoiced love — but, it had been easier for him to keep hidden. It had been easier for him to ignore. To feel as he did, he once reasoned, was unbecoming of any Vulcan. But, was not too the lies he had to tell himself? Was not too the increasingly outlandish reasons he provided himself for why he must stand so close by him, must share so much time when the opportunity prevented itself? But, he knows what it is Jim means. He knows why it is he says it.
Above all else, Spock would struggle most with losing him. If he were relegated to observing his own attachment in silence, he would gladly bear it. He would gladly bear any hardship, if it meant that he might serve by Jim's side. If he might, in any manner Jim would afford, support him. And so, it is like this, that Spock provides an echo of his own sentiments. It is like this, close enough enough that he might discern the brilliance of Jim's eyes in the full cast of daylight, that Spock tips gently to him without pressure or expectation:
"I shall rest, but think upon it." Spock squeezes his hands in return, once — twice. The linens are warmed between the heat of their palms and Spock finds himself more fatigued than he might have once dwelled upon. His mind hums, at once unpleasant and pleasant. "I have no desire to force a decision, to impose upon you the intensity associated."
He knows he should rest. He will not fight any such guidance, but he needs Jim to know it is all right too. He needs him to understand what it is he will be stumbling into. What it is that Spock is thinking, at least like this.
If Jim's really going to buy this soulmate stuff - which is somehow harder to believe than the blind, horny rage thing; don't even get him started there, he needs a minute to just stare into the void on that one - maybe there's a certain sense to it all. That they should be so different, and yet so similar, aligning in key areas; Spock did his best to throw people off with his exterior, but a little doggedness on Jim's part had gone a long way to understanding what lurked beneath. He wishes, sometimes, that he could explain this to those that would turn away - but then again, they're likely not worth the time.
And then there was their mutual thirst for knowledge which made their conversations so engaging; their uncanny ability to read things in each other that they both endeavored to keep hidden. As much as it sucked, sometimes - as frustrating and prickly as it could be - it was also oddly...freeing. Having another person look at him and see him, and being able to see them in return - who else had Jim ever had that with? Who else would he even want to have that with, if not Spock? Spock, whose ability to make Jim laugh was as unparalleled as it was unexpected, a brightness to his humor and quick wit that always left Jim feeling warm. Spock, who could always be relied upon - even when the odds were stacked against them, back against the wall, everything going to shit - there's no one else he would want at his side.
There's no one else he would want, and maybe the wanting is the scariest part, now that Jim's willful blindfold (if he's being totally honest with himself here; not a habit he wants to repeat, actually, being honest with himself kind of sucks - oh God, ignorance really is bliss) has been pulled from his eyes.
If Spock is looking for repulsion or reticence, he won't find it in Jim, as he meets his focused gaze. No, there is none of that for him - any reservations Jim might have are squarely rooted in his own inadequacies, of which he's more than aware of. It's not that he doubts Spock's words, even as the mild spark of incredulity makes itself apparent in Jim's eyes - it's more that as much as Jim tries, certain things are outside of his realm of understanding. The kind of desire and devotion Spock is describing is as if Jim dreamed it up, but then, it does fall in line with the whole bond situation - Jesus H. Christ. It kind of feels like he's holding a mountain of textbooks, and Spock keeps adding more.
"Don't speak too soon," Jim jokes weakly, though they both know there's a little bit too much self-deprecating truth in the sentence. He can't help but be slightly at a loss, still processing the fact that he just heard that out of Spock's mouth. If he is asleep, maybe don't wake him up. "If I put my mind to it, I bet I could have you running for the hills in under a week. Two, if I'm being thorough."
Frankly, Jim's not sure when his feelings towards Spock veered into this territory either - or, maybe he does, but he knows that looking at it too closely is a surefire way to embarrass himself and/or freak himself out more than necessary, so he doesn't. It's much easier to repress things when you're unaware they're there in the first place, when the option is safely closed off, inaccessible from the whole. And yet here - here, it isn't. Here, Spock has opened the option, and Jim -
Fuck. Jim wants. He's so fucked.
"You're never an imposition." Jim rebuts quietly, because it's true, and definitely doesn't mention intensity isn't a problem for me. As if the whole of their friendship hasn't been intense in its own way, anyhow. As if their dalliance at the bar hadn't brought with it a frisson of something Jim was unable to ignore, something that sparked a smoldering heat in the core of his being. He had known what it meant, to engage in that kind of behavior with Spock, and he'd done it anyway. Now there's - additional context, and the freak out he needs to have isn't based in regret: he needs to freak out about the fact that he'd do it again anyway.
Jim stands slowly, his hand moving to squeeze Spock's shoulder reassuringly instead as he does so. A short whistle brings Bones to heel, the dog sliding off the bed and trotting out into the living room - probably best to let Spock have some peace, to get himself back in order. Well, as much order as the Council will allow - and the incandescent rage is back, ah, wonderful.
"I'll be here when you're rested," Jim promises, and it's not a dig for earlier - it's just an earnest promise, maybe even more to himself than it is to Spock. That he won't run, that he will give this the turnabout in his brain it deserves - even if the thought of it is as daunting as it is potentially pleasant, if only Jim will allow himself to...enjoy it. "I'll make grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch, okay?"
Hard to fuck that one up, and who knows if it will actually make Spock feel better about anything to do with the current situation but - it's an offering, and it's within Jim's power to give it. That's enough, for now. It has to be.
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acrossthemultiverse2024-05-05 01:52 am
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Whatever the sentencing had done to him, it's definitely a discernible change from this morning. It's evident, even as Spock does his best to hide it (which is seriously a piss-poor showing indeed); he's downright twitchy (by Jim's standards for Normal Spock Behavior, at least), and Jim's concern has only grown, all the way back to the house. Jim doesn't even need the conclusive evidence that was provided when his fingers had swiped gently against the strip of Spock's exposed skin, right at the cuff of his uniform, and the maelstrom beneath had slammed into him, very nearly knocking him on his ass. Jim had, quite literally, stumbled; he wasn't expecting it and had no shields of his own against the tidal wave. It was too much to parse; a chaotic swirl of every emotion Jim could name, as well as a few he could not. He thinks the teenagers bought his mumbled excuse about a late night, not wanting to out his companion in front of an audience or draw attention to it - but that was not right.
Speaking of which, there's also last night to discuss - which Jim is fairly sure isn't the current issue, because his hand wasn't stinging the way it is now when he touched Spock before he went into the damn courthouse. They were interrupted from having to address it when Jim had awoken and Spock wasn't in the house, and news of his mandatory reporting for sentencing had come through. While it's not the first question on Jim's mind, it is still there, and Jim knows it's better not to let it fester. Is it nerve-wracking? Absolutely. But the alternative is worse, in the long-run; the danger of just...caving to the temptation of letting it lie, because if Spock can get away with it, he might not say anything at all, ever. Someone's gotta jump, and out of the two of them, Jim has always been pretty good at leaping without looking.
Spock's the one that figures out how to catch him while he's in the air, after all.
Point being: when they get back to the house, Spock being downright weird and Jim's arm still kind of tingling, his stare turns incredulous when Spock tries the weak excuse of meditation, in an attempt to beat a hasty retreat. He follows Spock to the doorway of his bedroom, where it seems Bones has curled up on the mess Jim left of the sheets in his flurry of activity, jumping up to meet Spock downtown. Because yes - he slept in here last night, and not the new bedroom added onto the other side of the house.
"Spock, what the hell?" Alright, maybe he's coming in a little hotter than he intended, but the concern knits his brow, gaze steady as he tracks Spock across the room. Bones perks his head up from where he'd been sleeping, watching the two of them. "What happened in there?"
What's wrong with you? He doesn't ask the question that feels like it might claw its way out of his rib-cage anyway, because then he really will march right back there and start blowing shit up. If something happened, if they hurt Spock in any way -
Jim takes a breath, one hand settling on his leg, thumb brushing anxiously against the seam of his uniform pants, in an effort not to cross his arms. It feels almost strange to wear it again, the contrast of their uniforms both right and wrong. There's the familiarity of the contrasting colors, the united front - but he's not the right Jim to match this Spock, and it's obvious to a more trained eye. The designs are different, though similar; the fabric not quite a match, the colors from differing palettes.
Still, it's a uniform Jim's used to facing battle in, so there's something to be said for that.
"We have to talk about this." The sentence feels too charged, in the space they shared the night in (even though nothing happened, but didn't it, though?) Jim straightens his back, folding his hands behind himself in a facsimile of parade rest; his left hand grips his right wrist, still shaking off the zap he'd gotten earlier. It's what he gets for continuing to touch a live wire. "Don't make me make it an order, Commander."
no subject
Before and before and before, he'd been bruised and battered and marked. Before and before and before, he'd been expected to be more than he is and less than he was. It had always been as this from the day he was born and perhaps he was foolish to think that any such person or any such place should come to accept it. Should come to accept Spock. Perhaps it was illogical, to think that one's inclusion was predicated upon the effort they exerted. That perhaps, entrusting where he chose and offering the loyalty that he does—
He knows it is a cowardice. He has always retreated when the stakes were too much, when the emotional load too heavy. He had always been the first to blink, the first to shy from the hand that reached for his as though he were a part. It had always been easiest this way, Spock had justified, knowing what he does. If there was no one else that might have held for him the expectation of the emotional, the irrational, and the secreted — he might be able to convince them all that he was precisely as he projected. He might be able to convince them all that there was nothing more to fault, save for the consistency — the inhumanity — of him.
In the end, Spock could neither leave nor be left those who might have wished to be closer to him. In the end, he'd thought, he was all the better for it.
And yet, Aldrip — Aldrip had been gladdened to demonstrate the depths of his failings, the uncertainty of his foundations. It had been pleased, to show him the depth and the breadth of all of his rot. No matter how many exceptions he might have carved, no matter how many strides he might have made to settling some accursed equilibrium, it was never quick enough. It was never sure enough. It was on his terms to be given, to be turned over to the recipient who had done nothing more than to earn it, as dubious a prize as it might have been.
And so of course, he knows, of course Jim follows him. He follows him less for the preservation of his own self and more for the preservation of him and all in Spock seems to rankle at the absolute prospect that he might subject himself to the consequences that do not belong to him (for what good would Spock have done him— what good does he do him now?).
That Spock rounds to face him across the division of their own unspoken aftermath is a suiting battlefield as any, one he wished to pick across upon his own terms. All that swarms up in him already is thick and dark and heady and he might find his own chin tipping up in a defiance he does not feel, but rather feels he must.
"Specify," Spock starts, sharper than he means and hotter than he ought. He should rather turn again to look out at the ocean, to look anywhere that is not at Jim, but it is against his programming. It is against all that it is he stands for, when the moment strains like a bow string and the line of his mouth runs taut. Since their wanderings back from downtown, he'd walked apart. It was less to ensure that Spock might have protected himself, but more to ensure that Jim would not again expose himself to the whole of what laid stripped to the marrow, what stings him as much as Jim stings now. "To which 'this' do you wish for me to refer?"
It is a useless endeavor. He knows that it is. In forcing his hands to unfurl from their trembling fists, it shows only the vulnerability he hides in himself. Pale like the belly of blind, groping things— the green of his blood stands out in neat crescents against the brief flash of his palms. He tucks them behind his back, a poor mimic of Jim's even poorer parade rest. Were he Human, he suspects, the bitter ache of his own flesh might manifest in a cool sweat at the dip of his temple, at the curve of his neck.
Pain is only of the mind. Pain is only temporary. Pain is only part of what alerts beings that they are alive, that they breathe. That they might survive, no matter the circumstance. It is this, that Spock repeats to himself. It is this, with which he might set his jaw. It is this, that he might hold Jim's gaze with his now, but—
The itch in his chest rises. The length of his spine needles and pins, tongue a creature both hideous and foreign. That he works to cage it behind his teeth does little for the nauseousness, the way the room seems to tip. It responds not at all to the assertions that he is able to control what is happening to him, that his emotions are not the force that drive him, but since when has he been one to decide? Here, in this place. How could he have come to believe that there had been any choice? Any chance?
He pulls in a breath. It hitches, hooked at the stitch that works it way into the muscle, the bone. It is shame enough, for Spock to feel as he does at the moment. It shame even more, that he feels most riotously as he drops his gaze to the dark, wooden floors.
In the kitchen, his hearing catches upon a subtle tick. A clock moving forward, despite all that he'd rather it wouldn't.
"I had wished to speak with you," Spock says, words straining. Each feel as though they have been pried from the root of himself, the weight of their bodies carrying with them the suffocating presence of some deeper remorse. "Voluntarily."
The grain beneath their feet warps. The colors run, as Spock thinks he too might wish to. Trapped against some corner, trapped in some Hell of his own making — it does no good to lash at the one who has never inflicted his wounds.
He finds he does not wish to.
"Captain, if you would have me discuss this now—" He pauses, swallows. Swallows, again. His blunt nails cut hot into the flesh of his wrists, bones creaking beneath the force of his own fingertips. He should rather break them, he thinks, than to be reduced to what he now is. The dark of his lashes tremble. He sees nothing, he thinks. He hears nothing, he thinks. The words are far away from his ability to stop them, a wound unable to be stemmed. "Jim. If you would have me discuss this now, I would have no such ability."
Is that not what he wanted? Is that not all that he could have wanted? His No, he knows it. He knows it, as much as the sentence knows it. It is not a cruelty Jim extends to him now, but the bitterness—
"You do not understand," he continues, words like ash and absence. Pleading, if not for the way that all seems to hollow out about the concept. Pain peels back what it is that rests at the base of it, the flashing eyes of a hunted animal. The basest and most profane kind of madness. "This morning, the shame of this sentencing."
It is all things that Jim does not deserve. He does not deserve them now, as much as he deserved them then. He had never wished to bring it to his attention, any of this. He had only— he does not lift his eyes from the ground. Even should Jim's gaze hold a weight both impossible and imploring, it is something that he can't do. It is something that he shouldn't.
For all that it is only they three who might exist in the room, that only they three should be held in the space where it might have (again) began, Spock knows what there is to lose. He knows what there is at the termination of this.
"It is the last thing I should wish to do," he says, the syllables soft and solemn as they too are pulled from his mouth, "to cause you undue harm."
no subject
Sometimes, however, Jim is made to very swiftly (and occasionally, painfully) be reminded of this fact.
The expression on Spock's face when he turns is - Jim doesn't know how to quantify it. Positively dour, that's about all Jim can identify, as if the idea of speaking with him at all is quite possibly the worst thing he could ever imagine. I find myself drawn to speak more with you, too. Well, drunken statements age like milk, why is he surprised?
Jim realizes his mistake in not, quote, 'specifying' when the resistance is made apparent in the tip of Spock's chin, the flash in dark, flat eyes - the cutting words that spit and hiss at him like a prairie rattlesnake threatening to nip at his heel. Except, of course, Spock's not threatening - he's already struck. His untempered emotions having singed Jim already today (Jim's fault, for reaching out, much like this is his fault, now), but more importantly - he was gone when Jim woke up, and while that wasn't the this Jim had intended, it seems Spock thinks he's already made himself clear on the subject, to reference it like that in the first place. He had, after all, made the choice to get up and be gone before entering the courthouse, so what was Jim expecting, anyway? Things always looked different in the light of day, and Jim couldn't hold that against him. And there Jim went, acting like an idiot, stepping beyond the bounds all morning because he had failed to read Spock's silent cues. His hand flexes; he needs to rub the muscle out, but he doesn't, letting it clench. Vulcans didn't do awkward morning-afters, did they? It would ruin the whole 'who gives a fuck' vibe they've got going on. God, he's so fucking stupid.
Perhaps Jim had gotten a little too comfortable here. This was, after all, Spock he was dealing with. Jim had been thinking of him in a softer way, perhaps due to the circumstances and the setting, but he of all people should know how deeply Spock could cut when he wanted to. This Spock or that Spock - they weren't different, not in this way, at the end of the day.
All this being said, the surprise that surely colors Jim's face at Spock's words is swiftly replaced by the immediate shuttering in his expression. For all that Jim can - and frequently does - express the full breadth of human emotion, he also has a poker face when he needs one, and if Spock doesn't want to have this conversation as - friends, whatever they are, which is not anything obviously - then Jim can have it as his Captain, instead. The blue in his eyes grows colder, icy and evaluating, while his left hand squeezes his wrist, as if to drive the stiffness from it via sheer force of will.
Jim compartmentalizes. They have bigger problems, and honestly, they probably always will.
Namely: Spock does not look well.
Looking past the emotions Jim has (for now) managed to beat into the corner of his own mind with a proverbial stick, he attempts to separate the heartfelt concern that aches in his chest from the tactical concern. Chiefly - Spock's rigid with tension, which Jim had noticed before after touching him on the way back - but it looks like it's rapidly coming unmoored. Like he's fighting against something, which seems determined to spill out anyway. Jim's eyes tighten at the corners, scrutinizing Spock's expression (which is quickly falling to miserable) for a moment. His phaser is still on his hip, still set to the highest stun capacity. This is more than snapping irritation - however real or not real it might be, Jim won't speculate lest the mountain of Don't Look Over Here spill over inside him, too - there's something else. Fucking Jerry.
The last time he'd been in a room with an out-of-control Vulcan, he hadn't been alone, at least.
For once in his life, Jim tamps down on the hundreds of glib, mindless responses - or worse, the truly mean ones - that he's well aware could rise to his lips. It hurt, obviously, because it was meant to hurt, because Spock could wield words like a scalpel. For someone who liked to claim emotion was a human fallacy, he sure knew how to incite it with deft aptitude. Still, however much Spock had caught him off guard, unbalanced from the highs and lows of this unusual morning - Jim was his chess partner for a reason, after all. He wouldn't be so easily beaten at the game by obvious bait, and like fuck would he let Spock see him bleed. When Hell froze over, that's when - alright, give him a second to stick that emotion (indignant anger, what is he, a scorned woman? Don't answer that) off to the side with the rest of them.
The beat stretches while Jim stares, uncharacteristically silent. Spock's breath catches, and Jim consciously relaxes his hand - but if he's expecting more vitriol (he is; not surprising, Jim knows he just Has That Effect On People) what Spock offers him is much more confusing.
He wants to say, Why not, Commander? in a hard, professionally demanding voice. Maybe it's not the right approach, who the fuck knows, but apparently a gentle or more laissez-faire approach was going to get a knife stuck in him, so. Being a dick worked last time (when the goal was to get him choked out within an inch of his life) - so maybe Jim will just settle for Not Fucking Around instead of, you know, outright hostile.
But the fact that Spock calls him Jim melts something in his eyes, even though he still doesn't move from the doorway, doesn't loosen his stance. At least Spock has the wherewithal to sound sorry, but the shields, in this instance, have been raised. It's not as though he gains no ground for his efforts, however, when dark eyes return from their journey to the floor, back up to frozen blue. "You're right. I don't understand. Make me understand. I don't even know what they accused you of, let alone what the hell they did to you in there!"
This is the way of things: Jim gives, and Spock takes what he can. Spock gives, and Jim takes what he's given. Jim never asks. But he's asking now, because he must. And he can tell Spock means it, the way the deep brown looks wounded, looks like he's begging Jim for mercy that he can't give, because he's let Spock get away with far too much as it is.
In the end, whatever harm Spock's caused, Jim knows it's his own fault for letting him do it.
"Little late for that one," Jim mutters, mostly to himself, because at the end of the day, he is only human, something was bound to slip through. But it's not spat, not hostile or malicious - it's a plain statement, and only mildly rueful. Which might make it worse, actually. He wouldn't say it's undue, though, whatever harm there might be. His fault. Always his fault. Jim's known it since the day he was born.
"Spock," He starts instead (impressively calmly, might Jim add, thank you), choosing to gloss over it for the moment (forever, probably, just bottle that shit right up!), head inclining just slightly to the side as he regards Spock - the whole of him, how the angry, defensive shell has ebbed into something eminently more vulnerable - but the whole thing just feels unstable in a way that's discomforting, especially coming from someone who Jim is used to seeing poised. "I need you to tell me what happened. Are you...being compelled? Did they give you something?"
no subject
It is not a reaction that surprises, but it does not mean it does not burn. For all of Spock’s calculations and computations, for all of his gambles and wagers, there is something inexplicable and frustrating and known in all that Jim is. In all that Spock is, pulling and shoving and grappling at the boundary of what could be, shouldn’t be, shall be—is. Is, no matter how Spock might war against it. No matter how Spock might deny and feint and decry, it is there. It lives, in the way that Jim remains in the doorway immovable and unrelenting. It remains, in the way Jim shifts and shutters and silences. It stays, as loyal and as hopeless as Spock himself is.
The clock moves. Time forward ticks.
Spock tastes acid on the tongue, blood upon the lips. Jim has taken what Spock has given. And Spock?
"A fact for which I might only express regret," he says after a long moment, dark eyes seeking to alleviate what he himself had placed there. Under his fingertips, the bones of his wrists grind together. It is not an ache of necessity, but one that he should rather believe he should place there. It centers him, a bruise to pair the vacancies of spirit. A bruise to match the stretch of his own failings, the problems he has woven in the guise of good-natured dealings. Self-deception is no better than any other lie, he thinks. Self-deception— "Despite my nature, Captain, I too..."
He draws a breath. The information burrs along the softness in his chest, hooks into the flesh and the fiber that make of him him. If it might suffuse him with the poisons of his own thoughts, the poisons of his own errors, there should be no one more deserving. There is no one else who should take the blame for the current agony of his predicament. There is no one else that Spock might point the finger at, but he himself.
(And is that too not suiting?)
Spock, for a moment, does not move. He does not think to, before he is dipping his chin. In the half-light of the bedroom, in the cramped quarters they’ve come to call a “home” in Aldrip, Spock looks no more or less a sinner at the knee in some confessional, no more or less a child caught with the wings of an insect between the stretch of their fingertips. That he loosens his own hands about the adjacent wrists he keeps pinned behind his back is one such admittance on its own, the skin about their edges speckled raw and evergreen with the evidence of his own attempts to restrain instead of relent.
"I too become so possessed by the vanity of appearances.”
All that might claw about the incomprehensibility of sentience do, Spock thinks, and he is no exception. At the base, they all muddle through the difficulties of their own existence. Expectation, desire, reform—Vulcans are not spared this. Spock, in the bafflement of his creation, least of all.
But, relent he does now. He does now, in deference to the harm he’d so sought to prevent. In deference to Jim, who need not put upon such shallow pretense of command after all that he done to him, but does regardless. Does regardless, because Spock’s own pride demands it. It is not something which should be spared so readily for him, he thinks. It is not something that should be as though an opening gambit, a piece slid across the board for the writhing, wounded things in him to take it. To use it, he thinks, as both a mask and a balm.
But, he is weak. And he is vulnerable. And there are things in Spock that he himself cannot look upon dead on, not when he is like this. Not when he is already so placed upon a precipice, the Humanity of Jim both closed and silenced to his access. Not when, he thinks, there is more to lose than there is to be gained in continuing as he is. If not for his sake, he knows, but for Jim’s.
And so, he telegraphs. As he moves, his shorter journey to the foot of the bed is slow, purposeful. He does not seek Jim’s reaction, not in the way of his expression, but instead watches the tension in the line of his body, in the way he keeps his hands. When he is satisfied enough to know he will not flee from him (though, he should think, he would not place blame upon him if he did), he sits upon the cedar chest that had long been placed at the base of the bed. In other times, he might have remarked upon the build of it. He might have thought of the aspirations of its previous owner, the dreams they might have stowed within. He might have allowed himself the quiet extrapolations so characteristic of him, but the need to press forward is greater than the need to remain silent. It builds, as he rests his elbows across his knees. It builds ever more, as he laces together his trembling fingers. Resting his hands upon his lap, he lowers his head once more. His gaze fixes upon his hands, unseeing, but still the words flow. Relentless, they still rise to his lips without care or concern for Jim’s own being. They still rise, in spite of his own.
“I did not wish for you to ask after my status, because I am—” He pauses, throat bobbing about the boundary of something he cannot (will not) name. “I have become aware, that I will say most anything to you. Would give most anything to you, if you asked."
Spock lets the statement land as it will. He knows it not to be an unknown, but to place word to the implicit—it is a debasement. It is a shame, ingrained in the bone and the flesh. It is an embarrassment, the kind that stings about the tips of the ears and floods his body with a kind of nauseousness. It is the color of his eyes, the shape of his emotions. It is his Human mother, used as ammunition. It is the green of blood across the cut of his knuckles as he digs the nail of his thumb into the ridges, the sharp lance of pain through the length of his jaw as he finds himself clenching his teeth.
And still, he watches nothing. He keeps his head down. He continues, the creep of the sun across the floorboards both an eternity and an instant. He exhales, and it is more a sigh than anything else he might admit.
"The council has given me a most just sentence, one that 'compels me,' as you say, to reveal information that is kept. Information, I might add, which at its base is a great source of shame to my people. We do not speak of it to outsiders, as much as we do not choose to voluntarily speak of it among ourselves."
It comes quicker than it ought, but no quicker than it should. Upon the first occasion, within a different time, he had said such things to Jim in the quiet of his quarters. He had hidden it, disguised it, managed it— managed it, as much as he might have. As best as he could. It had only been upon Jim’s insistence that all such matters would be kept strictly confidential, that his value to him was not something so readily replaced, that Spock had given him its name. It had only been to him, in the spaces between spaces. In the undue patience that he’d always handled Spock with. It was nothing that Jim might have handled unwillingly, he recalls. No, he recalls—
You've been most patient with my kinds of madness.
And how had Spock repaid him? Iron and copper, the sands that burned against his back. Stone and steel, sacred ash. Jim, the loop of fabric about his neck. His hands. His hands, Spock’s hands—
Something nameless and fathomless wrenches up in him as though a summer storm, a whipping wind. It clambers at the eaves of him, makes itself a known in the thickness of his voice and the hoarseness in his throat. It burns at the back of his eyes. He thinks of the suns of Vulcan.
"And yet, it was because of my negligence that you—” The words will not stop, will not cease. They claw through the tenderest parts of him. A betrayal, ancient and unique. “That I believed you to be dead. That I had killed you, with my own hands.”
His own hands. His own hands, that tremble still within his lap. His own hands, that sting with the memory of what could have been. What might have been. What was.
"It did not seem suiting, for me to mention its details to you. Not before it was necessary. To a Vulcan, it is this violence that overtakes them once every seven years. A blood fever. A stripping of logic. An impetus, to be soothed by those to whom they were betrothed.” He takes a breath. Despite his efforts, despite any dignity he might retain at all, his shoulders curl in. As though making himself small, unconscious as it is. “I had... Hoped, that I would be spared of it. That perhaps, it would not be necessary to disclose because yours too might yet be."
And is that too not implication enough? There is the division of timelines, circumstances. He does not know how the cycles should be impacted with the destruction of a home that never welcomed him, but had once been known as a home nonetheless. It was a mourning, he still held in his chest, for a world that could be and was not. It was the erasure of such history, such diversity, such… He shakes his head.
"I had made preparations to return to Vulcan, to contend with it myself, but—our course was delayed. You were asked to delay it. I could not have asked you to subject yourself to a court martial nor could I bring myself to express the urgency of my predicament."
How could he? He should rather it be himself that should face the consequence. It should rather be himself, buried within the complexities and nuances of his own culture, that should face what may have come. It was, he knows then and now, a cowardice. A stubborn tradition. Shame and guilt, wrapped within the vestments of ritual and sacrament.
Beneath the halfmoon of his thumbnail, the green of his own blood seeps. He watches it, uncomprehending. The angle of the sun is changing, the light of day making a display of the warm undertones of his hair. Spock takes no note of it.
"As you so often do,” he starts again, his words so soft they seem not meant to be heard, “you persisted despite my attempts. It is something I have both admired and reviled, but find myself so often in emulation.”
Finally, there is something in him that pulls him back to focus. Whether it be Jim or not, it does not matter. What matters is that the explanation has come. He had answered it. And it is this that eases something both knotted and hideous in him. It is this, that puts to rest the shove. At least, he thinks, until Jim again raises questions.
“You have always pulled from me the most irrational of impulses."
And for all it might be flung as insult from another, from Spock it is a tenderness. It is a gentleness, even so.
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."
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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.
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"I do." Jim confirms carefully, his own fingers curling against Spock's arm, fitting over the curve of his forearm. He squeezes again, simple, firm. As if it is no thought that it should be anything otherwise. Yes, him and his Spock - they hold an understanding of one another, a cognizance that is unique, unexpected. It is part of why Jim had been so frustrated, early on, by the few things that did crop up where they found themselves so far apart. How could they know each other so deeply, be so in sync about certain things, an unmatched Command team, and remain wildly divergent on others? Yet, Jim had found, those differences were leading them both to a deeper understanding. Not a weakness, if they didn't allow it to be. And yes, still - there may be things neither of them ever fully know about the other, but just because they did not understand did not preclude them from appreciating those things. Two hands, separated by glass - Jim knows this to be true. "It's always easier said than done, I think we both know that."
Doesn't mean it has no value in being said, though, that the reminder isn't helpful. To externalize the internal, so that it does not set in, eating merrily away where it cannot be burned out. Emotions could be corrosive, like anything, when left to steep. Jim tilts his head, silent for a beat, expression unreadable. "I hurt you, once."
Something they touched on in their hectic meld, though how much of this portion was clear is anyone's guess - there were other, more important things to be divulged, of course. Jim's thumb brushes against Spock's arm, the texture of the blanket raised beneath the pad of his finger. "I meant it to hurt. I got what I wanted, but it was cruel. I've always been sorry for it - and I always will be, even though you've forgiven me."
"Wrestling with these things...you're wrong, Spock. It's not a fault. It's a feature." Jim's own lips quirk in response, but he does not insult Spock by pointing out the humanity of it. Even though it is so sincerely human. "Regret, remorse, it's natural. It stays with us, and that's how we learn. But you can't punish yourself in perpetuity."
"I hurt you, and I learned that I never want to do that again." The offense Jim had given in no way equates to the monumental guilt Spock must have felt, thinking himself responsible for Jim's death - he doesn't mean to imply that it does - but the same principle here applies to both of them, one simply to a higher degree. Jim meets Spock's gaze steadily, pressing home the point. "Keep the remorse. Hold it close, until it burns, and then keep holding it. Let it burn, let it remind you. Don't ever let that go. But the rest, Spock - trade it out for peace, when you can. You shouldn't have to fight a one-man war."
It's not logical, he doesn't point out, but the gentleness that touches Jim's eyes probably conveys the sentiment all the same.
Jim acquiesces, the stiffness already touching his knees as he rises, settling next to Spock on the cedar chest. Their elbows brush, sufficiently covered by their respective uniforms, and Jim leans their shoulders together lightly for a brief moment before he settles back to listen. Trying to keep a grip on his reaction is an exercise in restraint, as each sentence out of Spock's mouth blooms more incredulous questions in its wake. Not true disbelief but - what? What in the holy fuck? Jim knew Spock to be a private man, especially regarding the typical private subjects but - engaged! Did she perish, with the planet? He'd never even hinted. Was it the same for his Spock, or had he mourned more deeply? What if she was alive? Did Uhura know? Had Spock already broken the engagement?
Endless questions that neither of them can answer, and all of it matters little, the circumstances of Jim's world. He can't very well hold this Spock accountable for the sins of another. Jim takes a breath, intentionally smoothing out his fingers, where they've curled against Spock's blanket-covered arm - they fan out, brushing over the knitted cable. "I'm always going to worry about you."
There's an honesty to it that Jim tries to lighten with his next sentence, huffing out a soft breath. "If I quit now, I'd need a new hobby. And I'm not that keen on finger painting."
"We're not betting your health and safety on an unknown." Spock's not budging him on this one, no way, no how. Circumstances be damned - if it could happen once, it could happen again. Seven years, at least, gave them a decent window of figuring out an alternative - besides, Jim didn't know what they'd do if they were stuck here for seven years. He'd prefer not to think about it.
"You speak of this engagement - " Jim tries not to stumble over the word, and it's a valiant effort, truly, but Spock had just described marriage or fight to the death so like, he's absorbing a lot right now. If he had ever thought a peek into the future might be a danger between the two of them, sharing the same space from different timelines, there's no way in hell he could have predicted this. " - the bond, it's more than a ring on her finger, I take it?"
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In better times, in times not so infused with a shame both learned and inherited, Spock might have indicated that such burning curiosity was the core of the self. That it was the center of the being, the fabled and poeticized élan vital. To know of the universe was to know of nothing else. To chart, to disclose, to discover — that was the purpose. That was the truth he had made for himself. That was the truth that he made for himself, as he watches Jim rise, watches him settle beside. As warm as any Human, there is something in Jim's own that is harder to describe. It is something that speaks to the way that his hands shape about the memory of his, the way his body fits alongside. It is something in the light, the tangled bodies of their shadows across the hardwood flooring. No matter how Jim might lean or brush, there is something about them that must always touch.
Touching, he thinks, without touching.
He places the thought aside.
"Perhaps for the best, Captain," Spock says, a distraction from the depths of his diversion. It is difficult to give information upon something that is both formed and unformed, both unknown and recognized. Still, there is a subtler brightening to the dark of his eyes. A catch of the light. A mischief, that has survived what is sharp and raw and scrabbling. A sort of play, that curls beneath the weight of Jim's palm. If he shifts to press a clothed knee to Jim's own? It bears no examination. "Talented though you may be, I believe your strength lies not with the arts."
That James Kirk was able to quell the most complex of grumbling engines, unknot disastrous affairs with little more than what he had in his pockets? Certainly, it held no surprises. But, but a painter? He was not. His hands were meant for the physical, the practical. Fingers deft enough for the most delicate wiring, but still sturdy enough to moor, his hands were not suited for the whims of a brush or the tensing of strings. They were built to hold firmly, to grasp closely. They were meant for something substantial and tender and sure.
Sure, as they are now against the division. No matter how even Spock might read the conflict and concern in the unfurling of sinew and muscle and bone, he does not contest the sense of constancy it brings. And he recalls, momentarily, another face. Another time. Another tomorrow. Another could yet be.
As if you've always been there and always will.
"Yes," he says, voice soft as he picks along the string of earlier discussion. For those who would forget the body and sum of conversation, a moment passing among the countless, Spock remembers them all. He remembers Jim's. "These things are not unknown to me. Shame, remorse, regret — you must understand, that these controls exist because we are not Human. Where you have survived in spite of, we had nearly perished."
It is not an unknown, perhaps. Buried within historical record, marred by secrecy. Those who are as clever could smooth through the deceits, tales and poems too impassioned for a culture that knows no bloody battles, no merciless quarrelling. For all it may be questioned that no demons yet exist within the tomes and sacred imagery, there is no question to those who read it closest. There is no need for foreign fancies, no fang or tooth or claw, when one knows only green — green, upon the palms.
"This morning," he pauses, fingers working beneath the linen as though attempting to find the contours of the words. No matter compulsion or sentencing, their boundaries have always evaded a kind of capture. For all his mind might know, it as though viewing a mirage upon the cusp of the horizon. Once it arrives at the mouth, the syllables and consonants are gone. "You were subject to the depth with which we feel. The way in which I feel."
Copper turns to bronze. The throbbing of his own injuries do not register, but merely exists. As Jim thumbs along the braiding of the linens, Spock finds himself in mirror. Where it rests in neat rows along the topside, the underside is frayed. It is something that is commonplace, among such older textiles. What is worn outside need not reflect within.
"When I say it is a failing, it is because I've recognized much within myself that I cannot reconcile. But," he starts, stops again. His eyes, which had fallen again to his lap, again lift. His brows furrow, the gravity of further statements a difficulty to coax his tongue around. "I am attempting. It is something that I do attempt."
He does. It is part of what he is. Part of what each Vulcan is. To hold onto what cannot be changed — it is a poison to the self. And yet, it remains. It stays. Bitter in the heart of himself, an unripe fruit within the soft flesh of the mouth. It stings in a way that he cannot fully contain, but it eases. Gradually, as though the growth of grasses along burnt prairie. The rise of a Terran moon. But—
"It is not a bet, if one knows their 'hand.'" Spock points out, not unkindly. There is something that Jim has not quite grasped here. He does not suspect he would most immediately, given there is no such written record available to most personnel. And even then, he knows it to be vague. The vaguest kind of "assistance," he thinks, for those who live off-world. Spock glances toward his lap again, wondering the paler coloration of the threads that comprise the blanket. What he might have to do, to remove what blood now stains it. "There have been no such documented cases of occurrence without these disturbances. There too is also suggestion that should the cause be treated, the symptoms too shall pass. Vulcans would not likely survive, if these cycles were so readily truncated."
For all that he keeps such explanations clinical, it is still a challenge. To have lived within a society that has kept these periods secreted, to have learned that to lose one's sense of logic and control was of the chief indignity — something instinctive and base in Spock curls in upon itself. It struggles to take alongside it the stubborn rigidity of his spine, the balancing of his shoulders. He fights, despite the nausea that pools beneath the skin, needles and pins the curve of his lips.
Engagement, Jim asks. He knows it is again something he seeks further information on for the sake of their own safety, but—
"Both yes and no. It is neither marriage nor simple betrothal. By necessity, we are often paired at seven." As though examining nothing more than river stone and microbes, the cadence of his words draws thin around a breath. It is an understanding that he has, perhaps, but there is no fondness in their weaving. "While those who are intended most typically aim to honor the choices of their parents, not all resolve as planned. My own was one such case."
And so it was. And so too was his father's. And so too was the lot of S'chn T'gai Spock.
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Spock, he thinks, would be good at it. Slender, long fingers, a delicate touch when he wants it to be. That was the kind of attention to detail one needed with art, not the blunt, thick-and-clumsy Jim brought to the table. Steady though Jim could be, feeding wires in carefully to a component or soldering a piece of metal - graceful and deft he was not. If Spock had the inclination for an artistic pursuit, of course; which as far as Jim is currently aware, he doesn't. Is art considered illogical, or is there a grey area Vulcans operate in? He knows of the elaborate gardens, though one could argue that they did serve a practical purpose - be it for water retention, agriculture, or diplomatic reasons (Vulcans did so love to pretend that anything entertaining was for the benefit of their illogical guests). He's read Vulcan poetry, though it's a lot more passionate circa pre-Reformation, for obvious reasons. Still, the fact that it's available for him to read at all is proof that it's believed to hold value, though how much of that is cultural versus historical, Jim couldn't say.
"And yet, you contain multitudes." Jim says gently, and far more tactfully than he had the last time they had a conversation along these lines. A different set of circumstances, another life entirely. But he knows what Spock is getting at - he read the poems, didn't he? O the night is dark and full of howls, but the day is full of screams; new dawn alights the blood, which mars the sands; green and red and black! O, to see the kiss of death upon the land!
They weren't all love poems, after all.
"Maybe it is," Jim stares at him even when Spock doesn't meet his gaze, something evaluating in his appraisal. "I know that you feel, deeply. Powerfully. More than my tiny human brain can comprehend - hell, that's why humans have tear ducts, isn't it? Somewhere to offload the limbic system when its overwhelmed."
"Where do you offload?" His hand passes over the lump of Spock's, the blanket providing a barrier, over the green dots they both know are there, hidden beneath the surface. Spock speaks of the Vulcan way of survival, but Jim could give a damn - he cares whether or not Spock survives this onslaught, whatever means necessary. Jim's lips quirk at the edges, melancholic in some ways but with a hint of private amusement as he offers Spock the words they have always traded, back and forth, worn over like the pages of an oft-read book, with diligence and loyalty and most of all, that undying quality of true friendship: "Let me help."
"Spock, you literally just said you don't know if it will ever happen again. Remind me never to take you to the casino. You would be terrible at Blackjack." He undercuts the mood with a joke, intentionally giving them some room to breathe. Jim is definitely starting to get the sense that he's treading water in uncharted territory, that there is something nameless beneath the surface he's not quite reaching yet. A shape in the water, perhaps, obfuscated just enough that he can't quite make it out - though he has a sinking suspicion it will become incredibly obvious the closer they get to it. Spock dances around the subject, the cause, and Jim's eyes squint at the corners in thought. The cause and the symptoms, the blood fever, Vulcans would not likely survive -
His mouth is far too dry as Jim gathers himself and asks, human intuition leading him to the jump Spock has so graciously laid out the stepping stones for. "...this cycle is a...er, biological...imperative?"
It's the kindest way he can think to phrase it while his brain is in the process of 404.exe erroring out, still reeling from the marriage or challenge, AKA fuck or rage monster apparently??? How in the holy fuck have the Vulcans kept that under wraps for this long? Spock's tensing, telegraphing his discomfort, and Jim tries, however much it might be in vain, to school his expression into something appropriately neutral. The shock of it surely shows in his eyes, so Jim looks away on the off-chance Spock chooses now to make eye contact, instead focusing on the blanket. The texture, woven in and out in uneven rows, though perhaps that unevenness is more their fault than that of whoever made the textile - pulling, pulling, pulling, until it comes undone, and then - there will be nothing left between them.
"An arranged marriage." Jim translates, repeating it aloud for his own sanity. Of all the ways he could have expected today to go, this was not on his Bingo card. "Spock I don't - don't quite...understand. Breaking the bond, you can't...replace it with another? Was there no other way to - satisfy - the conditions, er - to soothe the fever and uh, abate the symptoms?"
No other lovely Vulcan lady who might want a dashing Starfleet officer for a husband? Jim finds that, out of everything they've discussed so far, unequivocally the most difficult to believe.
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And I, a sleeping moon / lightless, turn my face and palms to you / and cast upon your endless nights the bloody spill of stars.
Spock listens to the rapid thud of his heart in his ears. He feels it in his mouth, as Jim questions him. Asks him. Implores him. Let me help. How many times, he thinks, has Jim said this to him? How many times has he himself repeated it? How many times, he thinks, as he glances at Jim (for a moment, just a moment) will they both have the means to open themselves to the suggestion? Does he know?
Does Spock?
“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself,” Spock recites, the corners of his eyes crinkling just so as he looks again from Jim. It should be familiar enough to him, the poem. As familiar as most. He too knows that such a feat as quelling their emotions made little sense to Humans. It made littler sense, when it came to reconciling what was reflected upon the surface was not what lay within. But, it was these philosophies and tenets that had settled his people most. It was these philosophies and tenets, Spock knows, that saved them. How else could such a species have forged such vivid poetry? Have carved from the rock the statues draped in heady sensuality? Have made for themselves the blades of weapons that mirrored the supple curve of bodies, the bosoms of their suns? Spock shifts. It is no more than a lean of the shoulder into Jim’s, but it grounds him. It makes something in him go calm and still and quiet.
“We meditate. Play music,” he says, after a long moment. The conversation resumes, answers given. Yet, there is no hardship to be found in what next he says. “But, I find there is certain sense of peace associated with your presence.”
There almost always had been. Since the time they had first met, since his hand laid against his—but, there is more to cover. There is more to answer for. Jim presses and on and so too must Spock, it seems.
“I had meant it in connection to my nature,” he says, a near sigh of a thing. But, once the cycle had been started, it was indeed most probable that it would repeat. It did not matter, the issue of his ancestry. “However, at that time?”
Spock shakes his head.
“None. It was T'Pring who raised the challenge in the depths of my blood fever. Reason and logic — it would not have appealed to me then. It is a biological impetus, one that spares no ‘higher functioning,’ as you say." Driven only by what is primal and profane, there would have been no means to suggest anything to him. There was only the urge to claim or be claimed. To die, he thinks, or die trying. "It was you, that she chose as her champion."
Doubtlessly, Jim should view it as a cruelty. But, logic pure and true held no such considerations. It operated only within the confines of conclusion and consequence, the moving parts as sure as they are certain. It was logic that had guided T’Pring’s hand to challenge, but it was emotion that led her to Jim. If there were ever any that match Spock whilst shielding her intended, it was always Jim. It was always Jim, who might have spun him back from the ledge, who might have held him from the edge with the steel and iron of his arms. If there were anyone, anything— it would have been Jim who might have unraveled the weave of his biology. It would have been Jim, who might have convinced him.
In the end, it was T’Pring who had outpaced him. It was T’Pring, who retained face for their families. It was she, left with a taste for Human volatility, that had made the final separation. Knife in the palm, she and Stonn were free to marry. But, he had wondered if her want should serve her as well as having. He had wondered, if she too would one day be left with the doubt of her decisions as he was once left in doubt of her. The bitter dregs of knowledge, the fact that what could be was often better than what was — for now, she had her freedom. Her freedom, bought with the gravity of Spock’s loss.
Loss, he knew now, that held no permanency. Loss, that dissolved in the bright arc of Jim’s voice behind him in the pale lights of the med bay, form both warm and solid beneath Spock’s palms. For all that it is subconscious, Spock seeks it even now. In the consideration of the boundary that separates them, thread and textile, he finds himself focusing upon the press and push of Jim’s fingers against the barrier of the linen. He considers the heat of them, trapped within the fabric. He considers, but finds himself making of his own hand a bowl. An upturned cup, that Jim might tip his into.
He knows that Jim’s mind calls to him, leans across the barrier as though it were nothing more than pretense, but Spock knows he cannot heed it. He cannot not heed it, not in full. He cannot heed it, no matter the depth and willingness that lingers beneath each extended conversation, each minute tilt of his chin. To want, he thinks once again, is so different than having. And to have such brilliance caught against his own body, to learn what it is to be chained to one such as himself—
How might he presume that he should be wanted? Wanted, he knows, long-term?
"It is not so simple a thing, replacing a bond of that nature," Spock opts for instead, his dark eyes still focused upon his lap. It is easier, like this. A coward’s route, but the words came smoother. They did not attempt to trip up in the mouth, to tangle themselves irreparably behind the bank of his teeth. “As such, my options are speculative.”
He tips his head. The movement lacks a certain finesse, drags as his vision does to resettle against the far wall. He does not know how else he might place it. Fatigue settles deep into the bones.
“To establish another of that magnitude is not a decision to be made lightly. For both parties, it runs considerable risk,” he pauses, words brittle in the mouth as he finds them. Each syllable that leaves him feels as though a bruise. “If one decides it is no longer wanted, it may not be possible to sever it without injury. Moreover, a cycle spent in another’s company would serve only to strengthen it.”
Though he may not know the whole of Jim’s thoughts, Spock does know his tendencies. He knows he would offer such gifts blindly, without question or thought. He knows Jim would offer it to him, at the expense of himself – at the expense of his independence. He would offer it, out of friendship.
And Spock?
He could not allow it. He could not abide it. Not when Jim deserved his own choices, his own emotions – his own ability to love.
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The poem gets another gentle laugh out of Jim, a titter that's quiet, relatively, but louder in the space between them. Of course Spock knew Whitman - hell, Jim already knew that he did - but the fact that it was so rare to find something Spock didn't know was something of a delight. And a pastime of Jim's, especially now with a physical library at their disposal. Spock leans into him, and Jim rocks back against him, a gentle sway and nudge of their shoulders, before he too stills, comfortable. If it's a human fallacy, so be it, but with Spock at his side, where Jim can offer whatever support his friend will be willing to accept from him - there's nothing they can't weather, right?
"Congratulations," Jim snorts, shaking his head good-naturedly, before he tips it up to catch Spock's eye. "You're the first person to ever string those words together and aim them at me."
But he can't deny it's pleasing to hear, as plainly as Spock was ever likely to say it. Truer still that Jim felt the same way - he always had, and had been identifying it more explicitly since their tenure here in Aldrip together began. Jim squeezes his arm through the blanket once more in tacit agreement, canting his head to listen as Spock continues to power through his explanation. And power through he does - of course it would be Jim. Who else? It's all starting to make some horrible amount of sense, the scene playing itself out in Jim's mind's eye in technicolor, too vivid. He's been at the other end of Spock's fists, tasted copper and seen stars - and that was an iota of what he could have done. Stripped of all logic? Jim's not sure how he would have even begun to have fought him - but he does know he would have tried.
It seems T'Pring - and now he's got a name to add to the shitlist, good - knew the same. It presents itself like a coward's loophole to Jim, one that would leave her and whomever her true champion was entirely unscathed. Did she know what it would do to Spock? Did she care? Worse, had she counted on it? Where is the logic in cruelty, in savaging another to get what you desired? Was that not the whole point of switching to a system of logic - to avoid such uncivilized mauling of the soul?
The ire it inspires, Jim swallows, burying it deep in the center of his chest. Secrets it away, as Spock leans closer, bridges the divide, tells him without words what it is he needs. His hand, a tentative half-moon beneath the fabric, and Jim mimics the motion with care, letting them come together with gentleness that belays the fury on Spock's behalf. Whatever Spock needs - whatever he is willing to accept from Jim - it is his. It always has been, and perhaps it's not as subtle as either of them might have thought, if T'Pring could see it plainly enough to abuse it but - this is their way of things.
If this is all there is, too, Jim is willing to give it. Willing to live in the permanency of their friendship, and be grateful for it. He thinks that it might not be all, though, after last night - that the things they do not say are closer to the surface than they appear, rising closer and closer still. It's not the right time for this discussion (God, when is it ever?), complicated further by all of this. Jim gaze traces the contours of Spock's face before he looks away, ingrained politeness as Spock speaks - it feels too private, and he's sure his own expression is less and less controlled as he absorbs the information.
"...I see." It's too fantastical, really, for him to fully grasp it. To be fair, it's not as though he has any similar concept by which to understand it except just that - the fantastical. Bonds, so deep and inextricable as to be integral to the whole - like destiny, or fate, or the other intangibilities that surround age-old stories of true love. That they could exist without the imagined love being there is - hard to understand, in full. Upsetting, in truth, that Spock should be left without, that he should be endangered by the lack. Jim frowns, well on his way to the suggestion Spock had already predicted - though it remains shapeless, for the moment. "And you can't subside the fever without a bond?"
No life-saving sex before marriage, evidently. The shapeless begins to take its form, understanding starting to connect behind Jim's eyes like gossamer filaments, drawing together to illustrate the whole. He lets the beat of silence pervade, just the two of them sitting on the edge of the bed, sunlight rising on the opposite wall as the sun crawls higher into the sky, lighting up the morning.
"You didn't tell him any of this." It's not a question, because Jim doesn't need a forced confirmation on something he already knows to be true. Knows, because of course Spock wouldn't, not unless - well, unless he were compelled. Literally.
The why sits there in the air, begging Jim to take it. To ask, when Spock must answer. But the thought makes him feel vaguely ill, the idea of taking more than Spock is willing to give. Or, perhaps, of hearing an answer he was not meant to know. Spock did lash out, only minutes ago, and Jim didn't want to press that further. Years of love have been forgot / in the hatred of a minute.
The silence stretches, all that is unspoken laid at their feet. Jim sighs, tipping his head back, and maybe it's an excuse not to have to look at Spock and betray the nerves that bubble up from somewhere inside of him, but hell, he'll let himself have this one. "There is only one thing in this universe I would never forgive you for, Spock."
Jim drops his gaze from the ceiling, centering it on Spock's again, hand squeezing his through the fabric. "Leaving me, before your time. The rest - we can handle. Together, not - not on your own."
"Just - " Jim doesn't know how to say it. How to wrap all that is and was and will be up in a single sentence, or even ten sentences, twenty - to press home how much he means it. That nothing Spock could ever ask of him would be as unacceptable as him leaving, as him harming himself for whatever reason he deemed justifiable. As intolerable as Spock rooting himself in Jim's life, and making the decision by himself to walk out of it. It may not be a crazy Vulcan marriage mind bond, but Jim's sure it would kill him just as similarly. "Just don't, okay?"
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It is illogical to think that anyone should know everything in space and time, that anyone should grasp the enormity of what could be and was and is as a whole. To Spock, there was always more to learn. There was always more to improve. There was always another mountain to climb once the previous was conquered in a steadier stride than the one before it. To grow and to change held more esteem and more appeal than remaining than same, but there too came the pain of existence. There too came the stranger agonies, the absolutes that one cannot be shielded from no matter the method or training.
Spock had learned it young. He had learned it in the turn of Vulcan's bright suns, in the nights that engulfed the horizon. He had learned it from the day he was born, a child of science and consequence. For all he was placed upon the consciousness of his world a miracle, he too was considered abomination. He too was challenged by dual and dueling expectations, those who would come to adore and revile him for all the wrong reasons. To most, perhaps it would be enough to hamper the fires that licked at the fabric of himself. To others, perhaps it would be foolish of him not to lash out more than he had against the narrow paths they'd tried to lay for him. But —
There is a certain pleasure, in learning with Jim. Charting what has not yet been charted, being the first to brush against the soils of new and unseen planets — seeing Jim, alight with an interest that too suffused him. Folding botanical specimens into his palm, craning his neck to peer into the stars that hung again above their heads, there was nothing that could keep Jim from movement. From chasing, Spock thinks, the same and binary formations.
And Spock?
Even now, he follows the pattern of his Captain's words, leans into the spaces where Jim welcomes him. His cupped palm in his through the fabric, the simmer of Spock's emotions distant enough not to harm him — he curls his fingers. Linens bunched and smoothed over the backs of Jim's knuckles, he maps the approximate shape of each valley and dip that lies between each finger, feels the heat of palm as it bleeds through the bulk of the blanket. He does not know what it is Jim thinks, what it is he feels, but Spock might take his guesses. He might speculate.
"I find it difficult, to think that I have not already said this," he says, words low and solemn. "Indirectly, perhaps. I find it more difficult still, to think that no one else has too."
And now? He might assume, feeling the weight of Jim's eyes against him. He might form theories, knowing how it is they trace the shape of his profile. He might confirm, within error, as he glances up and away.
"No," he says, the word a burr in the heat as it is in the chest. It prickles along the soft flesh of his throat, his dark eyes sweeping lower to the floor again beneath them. It is an answer to both. To each in turn. He knows it to be useless, to refuse the rest to rise with it. He feels the barest twinge of an ache forming at the base of his skull, the shudder of something deeper and more profound bubbling up the surface. "I could not have told him. I did not..."
He takes a breath. The tail of it hitches strange and dark and sharp.
"I could not have asked this of him. Under those circumstances, without the full knowledge of what it would entail... Knowing, that even a temporary bond might remain."
He knows he need not specify why. Not this time. The information has been given, laid in such a way that it would be difficult to miss. The fear that Jim may tire of him, might grow to resent him when he may have chosen only to bind himself to Spock out of obligation —
Spock focuses upon his own respiration. He counts. The pain he feels now is unrelated to the pain the sentencing casts upon his person. It is a mental one, intertwined with the physical. To grant such emotion without pause, without his own means and methods — it takes a moment. It takes a moment, to pull back into himself. Wrenched open, it takes time to gather the scattered aspects of what makes him him.
And, perhaps, it is all for naught when it is Jim avoids his eyes as Spock chooses now to take him in. An upward tilt of his head to pair his, chest vising about the profundity of what it is Jim tells him. What it is he asks him, as though Spock were something to be missed in ways that were deemed unfathomable. Unforgivable, should it have been in some way prevented.
Spock does not speak. Not for a long moment. The words tangle up in his throat, catch against the back of his teeth. The weight of what he might say and could say makes the backs of his eyes burn, makes of itself an effort to find the words that have so often alluded him.
And still, his hand grasps back at Jim's.
"Jim," he says, finally, the name a soft and tender thing in the mouth. It dissolves at the end, searching and so rarely uncertain. "There are always risks. Were it to come between myself and you, you are the Captain. Without you, I..."
He pauses. To his ear, the sailors are calling out at the docks. The ocean ebbs and flows, unimpeded. But, to Spock, all there is this bedroom. All there is himself. Jim.
"There is no time, where I would find myself compelled to choose myself above you," he continues, voice soft enough to be missed were Jim not pressed as close as he now is. "You cannot die. I know it is illogical — selfish. But," he takes another breath, gaze dropping again to the tangle of their covered palms and fingertips.
"I will do only what I can," he says, quiet and resolute. It is as much as he might give to him. As much as he might vow. "I will promise you my cooperation. To be more... Forthright, with what I might singularly control."
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There is a reason Jim and Spock get along, beyond a shared love of chess and similar taste in books. There is an insatiable desire for more that lurks beneath their skin, that certain quality that sends people like them up to the stars, instead of staying dirtside. There are those who are meant to stay in one place, and there are those who are meant to walk into the unknown - though if they're being honest, the pair of them were running, more often than not.
Jim doesn't think he could do it with anyone else by his side, truth be told. There is no one else he is as in sync with, no one else whose thirst for knowledge rivals his own. It is, perhaps, one of the qualities Jim most greatly admires in Spock - and that list, admittedly, is quite long.
"Would I lie to you?" Jim jokes, though it lands more gently than it should to be fully effective as a jest. Maybe it's because Spock is holding his hand again, even through the fabric of the blanket, like it's his tether to tranquility, to keeping his feet on the ground throughout all of the morning's chaos. Jim lets him, keeps still and covered beneath the fabric, save for when Spock's fingers map out his second knuckle, the scar tissue there, hand twitching to meet him. "Seems we make good company, then."
Inappropriate though it most certainly is, a part of Jim wants to laugh, the hard sound bubbling in his chest, begging for freedom. He tamps down on the urge - it's not born from humor, but that kind of desperate disbelief that occurs when someone is being so monumentally ridiculous. He's smart enough to pick up what Spock is putting down, what he's laying so tentatively at Jim's feet, as though he would ever dare to kick at it - but it's almost beyond the pale, truly.
Jim can't imagine a world where he turns Spock down, Vulcan brain bond or not. He can only hope the other Jim didn't give Spock a reason to think that he would, because then Jim will have to kick his own ass, and hopefully that doesn't rip a hole in spacetime or something equally ridiculous.
"Spock," Jim finally starts, glad that they're not touching skin on skin, that Spock cannot feel the whirlwind of emotions he's cycled through in the beat of silence between their sentences. He can probably intuit it well enough, God only knows what Jim's expression looks like now, but he squeezes Spock's hand through the blanket, firm and grounding. "You misunderstand. You're not asking, because it's not a question."
"If I were suffering from the same," Perhaps putting it another way will get it through Spock's head. Jim tilts his head, fixing Spock with the full weight of his gaze. "Would it be a question, for you?"
Jim sighs quietly, an exhalation of air that eases the tightness in his chest as Spock begins to speak. Starting with Jim; somehow, Spock says his name like no one ever has. Like it's something precious, like he's afraid Jim's going to revoke his right to it. It never fails to capture Jim's attention, to seat something warm in the pit of his stomach. Amidst the anxiety, the precariousness of this entire conversation - that flower still manages to bloom.
The rest is -
Jim's pretty sure his brain needs a reboot, or he needs to wake from a coma or something, because it just doesn't even seem like hearing those words out of Spock's mouth could have been real. It's dangerously close to something else entirely, something that Jim doesn't even know how to begin unpacking, in addition to everything else this morning.
Blessedly, Spock doesn't ask him to. Once again, he's glad they're not touching, skin to skin, so Spock doesn't have to feel the wave of guilt that laps at him as he says, you cannot die. Once was more than enough for the both of them, it seemed.
"I'm not asking you to," Jim says quietly, squeezing Spock's hand back - perhaps too tightly, but it helps, to feel him solid, real beside him. There is, perhaps, a part of him that is grateful he was the one behind the radiation glass - Jim's not sure what he would have done if their fates were reversed, and he had to watch Spock slump, lifeless, on the other side. "Not unless - if it's necessary, in our line of work."
Even as he says it, Jim is well aware of the irony and hypocrisy in his words - he went back for Spock, violated the Prime Directive with barely a thought, lost his ship and his rank because of it - and he'd do it all again, no hesitation. Spock, in this instance, likely wouldn't listen - but Jim would be remiss if he didn't say it anyway.
"Me too." Another squeeze to their covered hands, and Jim leans into him, brushing their shoulders together. "I promise. All we've got is each other, Spock. I can't...I can't do this without you."
One could claim willful blindness and assume Jim means Aldrip and all the situation entails, but Jim knows that they're both aware he means it in the larger sense. Still, after everything Spock's told him - everything he's been forced to tell him, in addition to everything he's chosen to - the least Jim can do is return a little of the honesty, perhaps in the way they communicate best.
"I cannot live without my life." Jim's smile is soft, shoulder a warm point of contact between them. "I cannot live without my soul."
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There had always been more to the missions, to the endless spill of endless stars. There had always been a steady and easy rapport, a willingness to answer the other in ways that could not and would not have meshed with another not to their exacting tastes. Jim, for all that he was at once steady and restless, was the only that seemed to contain the curiosity that made of Spock a haven. It was he that steered Spock upon paths more emotive, more permissive of the Humanity that lurked beneath the surface without naming it for what it was. And it was Spock, that made Jim consider what was factual and calculated. When Jim could not sense that something was off, it was Spock who might have informed him. And Jim, he thinks, Jim—
There is no other that knows Spock like Jim does. There is no other that knows Jim. Spock holds what is secreted against the ribcage, stows it within the metaphorical spaces of his Vulcan heart. He understands the nights where Jim cannot sleep, knows the strength of his tea, knows the way his hands move when he is aimless. He knows that his compassion has endangered him many a time, but it is such a trait that Spock could never find himself in distaste. There will never be another that knows them as know each other. There will never be another, so long as it is they both live.
But, to Jim’s question: what else might Spock do? He shakes his head, more implicit than not, the shadowed corners of his lips curving in a way that only Jim might call upon. He knows that Jim would never lie to him. Not if he could help it. Not if it was not otherwise demanded of him. It is something Spock himself had to do once. It had brought him no pleasure, to disguise it from him. But – Spock listens. He listens, through the heavy buzz that settles over his skin, that turns less pleasant stimulus to a needling throb. Spock keeps close anyway, holds to Jim anyway, as though the idea of separation was a far more intolerable a concept. He feels Jim’s eyes upon him, a heavy and tangible weight.
He meets Jim’s attentions. Spock knows no other way.
“No,” he says, the word a confession and promise both. He tastes the declaration upon his tongue, smoke and embers. It stings, but it does not burn. Not in truth. When it is something he has known from the beginning, how might its appearance have taken him off-guard? How may it have injured Spock, when it is a wound as obvious as the inevitable impulses that would subsume him in the pursuit of keeping Jim where he ought to be – to ensure he remained where it was he belonged? “You are the one I could never refuse.”
It is no revelation, no sudden epiphany. He had known it from the time he’d rested his palm against Jim’s in the galley, young as they both were then. He had known it from the moment he had completed Jim’s sentence for him, plucked his emptied glass from the table as he reached for it to place upon a passing tray. There had been no mistaking it, no matter how he had run all these long years.
“Jim,” he pours over to him, his name more the hush of a supplicant in Spock’s mouth than any other iteration. It is a question, a query – a verification. It is all three in sum, Spock knows, as he finds within himself the shape of the words that wish to come pair with Jim’s. As he tips his head in mirror, the brush of Jim’s shoulder an anchor in turn to him.
“He’s more myself than I am,” Spock recites, his dark eyes searching. Even if Spock might discern the shape of the boundary, there is something within him that cannot believe what it is. Such things were never built for him, were never permitted. Such things were fable and legend, but how else might Spock have known him? Jim, no matter the slope of his nose or the curl of his lips. Jim, his freckles displaced as though new constellations. His eyes, the color of the birds that made within the Forge their nests and sung sweet and soft and high. Spock grips back, knowing innately the strength and pressure that would suit him. “Whatever our souls are made of…”
He pauses, allows Jim the opportunity to confirm what it is he has settled upon. For all that Spock has grasped it as fact, Jim has not been made aware of it yet. He has not been made truly cognizant, though Spock may have suspected, may have theorized, may have made guesses both educated and – he holds Jim’s gaze. He holds it, as though to look away would be to flinch from the inevitable crescendo. To lose, Spock thinks, what it is that they have built between them all these long and lonely years no matter the distance and time and circumstances. No matter, Spock knows, the infinitesimal possibility that they would ever come to meet at such a point and in such a place.
Jim had found him countless times over.
Perhaps it is his turn, to do the same.
no subject
Jim is a wanderer, if not by nature, then by nurture. It's probably a mix of both, if Jim's being totally honest with himself. Perhaps the call to the stars had less to do with the expanse of the universe, laid out in front of him, and more to do with the fact that he wasn't going to find his pointy-eared counterpart with two feet stuck to the ground - and some part of him knew it, somewhere deep and instinctual. He could not have guessed at the beginning all that would come to pass between them, any more than he could have guessed what was next for them here, in their current predicament - except couldn't he, though? From the very first, when their eyes had locked over a sea of red - didn't he know, somehow?
Spock had known, both times Jim had found him, out of the blue. In the cave, the entire situation had all felt like the weirdest kind of nightmare, and Jim had never examined it too closely. It was too painful, too wrapped up in everything else, and then the meld with Spock Prime had well and truly turned Jim's thoughts from the matter, his entire mind and memory shying away from the encounter. How had he known, so immediately? The memories he'd gleaned from the Spock next to him - Jim didn't look like his Prime equivalent. Sure, he was close enough - same dirty blond hair, an approximation of the same build. Perhaps his eyes would be the same shade of hazel, were it not for the circumstances of his birth. But he could just as easily have been any other random Starfleet officer, stumbling around on the docks - how had Spock known?
At this point, the question is moot
well, for the next paragraph or so, interesting though it may be. Jim knows Spock better at this point than he knows even himself; knows the shape his vowels take when he's tired, knows the cut of his cheek, when Spock is contemplating his next move in a round of chess. Knows the light in his eyes that can only come from the excitement of discovering something previously unknown to him; knows the steadiness of his presence, in the face of every adversity the universe has thought to throw at them. He knows Spock, and this Spock - day in and day out, sharing not just a house but building a home, a life together, for whatever that ended up being worth in the end - he knows him all but completely.Spock does not shy away from him, allows their heads to draw together as they sit there, talking, and the relief is an easy thing, lingering barely-contained beneath Jim's skin. As much as the admission to Jim's question may be coerced, it seems to come easy to Spock's lips - it's the truth, and in the middle of this frankly bananas conversation, not one that is a hardship to bear.
You are the one I could never refuse.
Jim might not be fully aware of just how deeply Spock means that, but he doesn't need the details, nor the Council's bullshit compulsion, to know Spock is telling him the truth. He holds Spock's gaze, meets that secreted shade of a smile with an understanding one of his own; more pronounced, always, in the areas where Spock is predisposed to subtlety.
"Finally, Mr. Spock." Jim doesn't look away, doesn't cheapen his words with a joke, though the undercurrent of humor is present - how can it not be, when the idea that Jim would ever choose another option has been spoken aloud (as if there was ever a choice to be made, that it was not simply a foregone conclusion, and whatever 'sacrifice' Spock perceived it to be, Jim would give it gladly)? "We've found something we agree on."
And then Spock continues, pulling them past the borders of anything they've charted before, and out into the unknown.
That he quotes Brontë back at him is really Jim's own fault - he set himself up for that one, he can't deny it. The intense eye contact is also to be expected, to a certain degree - but Spock does not look away. Jim stares back at him, caught like space dust in the inescapable gravity of a passing moon. Spock refuses to lessen the impact of his words, to couch them in something more along the lines of their usual back and forth - instead content to let them lie plainly between them - with nothing to follow them but the blank Jim is filling in: whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
The understanding dawning on his expression would be comical, if it weren't so utterly bewildering. Jim blinks, then blinks again, all too aware of the drag of the seconds as they idle by, lost to the silence that pervades between them. He's no walking chronometer, like his companion here, but it's got to be a good sixty seconds before he looks away and exhales a jittery, amused huff of air - too breathy to be an actual laugh - breaking the stillness.
And yet, when Jim's gaze returns to him, Spock continues looking at him like that, not taking the out, patient as ever - and Jim's axis tilts a little further.
"...you're serious." Not a question, and not another bit of poetry, passed between them like folded notes on a playground, because for all they've bantered previously, this is certainly the boldest either of them have been - and Spock's deviating pretty severely from their previously established patter. It's not reading like flowery language, but a confirmation of - what? Even thinking it brings some color to his face. "You think - bullshit."
The word slips out, capping the sentence that Jim can't even say out loud - can't put the thought into words other than Brontë's lyrical language, without risk of embarrassing himself. He hasn't pushed Spock away, hasn't moved to free himself from their configuration atop the cedar chest, but Jim's brow does furrow, hands squeezing Spock's through the blanket - though whether it's a conscious choice or instinct, it's hard to tell. "Sorry, that wasn't - I didn't mean - I don't understand."
Doesn't he, though? Somewhere deep, somewhere instinctual - there is something within him that calls for Spock, always. That Spock is acknowledging it must mean - it must mean he senses it, too. What.
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It is here, that he will admit that the feeling he possessed in the silence between Jim’s denial and his retraction was a singular and simmering dread.
To be so swiftly followed by relief, tentative and fearful – Spock’s throat bobs, as he watches him. His lips part. And, no matter how patient and still he might appear to Jim, there is a tension that only releases from the curve of his shoulders when Jim speaks, processes. In whole or in part, it does not matter. It is then, and only then, that Spock draws breath again. All else seems… Secondary, to be broached later no matter how much a temporary balm it might have been for them.
“Yes,” he says. Without hesitation, without emphasis, without any such gravity that would make most consider why it was they had said as they did to begin with, Spock passes the answer over to him. He hands it to him, as one would hand one a flower – with the certainty that one should wrap their fingers about its stalk, hold it to their chest without suffocation. And yet, beneath even that – he watches.
“I…” Spock starts, pauses. The words will come as they are bid, but there is something in Spock that prickles at the notion. The information that has been wrenched from the secreted parts of him, the irritants formed by age and weather into misshapen pearls – they are not another’s to do with as they please. They are not another’s to hold between their teeth, to make a mockery of. They are not theirs to sample, to sieve for what is worthy. No, Spock thinks, these have always belonged to him.
“There is a word, to describe such connections,” he begins again, a shallow stitch forming between the dark of his brows. He thinks of the times his mother would wear such similar expressions, how it took so much will not to simply reach across and smooth it. Smooth it, in recognition and commiseration, with the meat of his thumb. “A term.”
He wonders if Jim often finds such impulses, wonders if he feels them as acutely as he does. In the mornings, where the wild sweep of Jim’s hair ventures into angles once unknown to man, he wonders if Jim too has caught himself more than once. Has caught himself more than once, pulling his hand back and away when Spock does not see it. Even now, his hands seem to itch. They itch, as Jim’s too seem to, grasping as he does for both of Spock’s beneath the linens. Spock finds himself unwilling, but not unable, to not squeeze his hands in response.
Jim needs it more than he does, he reasons. He knows it is in part a falsehood, but there is neither harm nor illogic in providing what is needed across. And there is not illogic, Spock thinks, in the feeling that he carries with him. Still, he does not place blame upon Jim for his reaction. To himself, such a notion seemed improbable. Impossible, perhaps. But, was it not Jim who did not believe in such declarations? Was it not Spock who, despite his better judgement, began to believe in such concepts too?
Spock’s dark eyes search him, gaze touching upon the spaces between the curve of a brow, the cut of a cheek. That Jim has looked back at all is something he had not in full anticipated, but it surprises him little in the aftermath. So often, it had been Spock who had flinched first. Who had, in full, the reason such a conversation began to start. His refusals, his inability to allow himself to want—
“You have been to me a friend, a brother. A… Companion, in all things,” Spock says, the syllables turning over his tongue as a Human within their peculiar confessionals, their perceived misdeeds spoken through velvet and lattice to the one who might hear them upon the other side. And yet, it is not himself that he had committed such injustices toward. It was not Jim, who had been at fault. “I had once told you, that to feel friendship for you caused me great shame. It was not you, who I was ashamed of.”
His fingers twitch. Ache blooms anew in the pit of his chest, in the pit of his stomach. The world beyond Jim is flat and static, the heat of the summer tart and sour on his tongue. Jim’s eyes are so blue and so disbelieving, but there is something in them. No matter how unable he is to understand the complexities of Human emotion, he too carries them. For all he might deny that they exist, they still dog him. Fang and tooth at the heel, they are as much his own as they are Jim’s.
“This… Concept. It is the singular one I might ascribe to you. ‘Friend,’ as a Human definition, does not exist in our lexicon. It is only this.”
With gentle intention and with the meat of his thumb, he presses the word into the skin. Letter by letter, he uses the codes that they know – he taps it out to him. T’hy’la. A summary, a legend, something spoken about sparingly among those scholars who would dig into the brutal and bloodied rituals that once so defined them. Vulcans, who cleaved space for themselves under and amid the net of the stars. That Spock uses the language of others to portray the depth of his thoughts, the depths of his… Regard is only circumstantial. It is the only way he might have felt capable of, until held to the knife of some instated consequence. And even then, who was to say that he should deserve this? Who is to say that he should have such an opportunity to want?
Still, ahead of all that pushes him forward toward the inundation of information, he tells Jim. He implores, syllables breaking soft at the swell of his own lip.
“That I found you that day at the pier – it was no accident. I felt you, as I have felt you before. I knew, no matter how illogical it should appear to you, that you were Jim.”
It wasn’t. He recalls it. He recalls it, across the scent of sea and sand. He remembers it, vivid as anything else he might hold frame of his memories. Jim, disoriented and unsteady. Jim, who looked upon him as he most often looked upon him. A relief, a comfort.
A sense of something whole.
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."
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When he was young, Spock had once wondered what it was that made him so abhorrent. He puzzled over their dismissive words, the way the would not even meet his eyes. He questioned, with his hand held within his mother's, what it was he had done to deserve it.
There are those who will dislike you no matter the cause, she had told him. Overlooking the courtyard, the gardens in full bloom — he had wondered how much more she had endured. Before and after him, how much was she given to carry? What more might she do? He hadn't understood, not then. He had not understood, what it was to hold something so sacred and secreted. He had not understood — still cannot —, why it was she had chosen his father. Had chosen, also, Spock. Upon a planet that told itself its denizens did not love, there was much to unweave in the makings of him to begin with.
There was much to untangle. There is, even now. And in that, Spock thinks with some unfurling wonder and disbelief, is the question: is it really me you choose?
Is it really him, who knows not the final shape of his wanderings? Who does not want what he cannot have? Who cannot express himself as a Human, no matter the Humanity in him? Him, who is conflicted and ugly at the foundations? Him, who carries the depth and breadth of emotion? It would not be the first time that his feelings would be considered repulsive. It would not be the last time that others would find them oppressive too, heavy in the lay of its head.
But, Jim does not pull from him. He pulls in. He pulls in, as his expression flickers through the tides of any number of emotions. Spock cannot name them all as they rise and sink and surface, but he might know they are reflected. Reflected, perhaps, in whole or in part. And yet —
Once Jim settles upon a conclusion, it is difficult to sway him. It is something that Spock himself knows. It is something, too, that Jim attributes to him in the moments where Spock does not bend even beneath the playful pressure to admit a hunch, a notion. An inkling, that belongs where logic does not. But, there is also logic in this. There is also logic in the mystic, in the otherwise indefinable. It had never been a question that Spock would come to trust Jim, that somehow — inexplicably —, the fissures in himself were a match for Jim's own. When all other conclusions were thus examined and discarded, what else might it be?
Spock's mind has known Jim's from the beginning. Jim's soul had answered his katra's call. How might he have discovered him otherwise? How might have he have thus found in every iteration, in every timeline? The universe is endless in its possibilities, but somehow — somehow, they found themselves repeated. Again and again and again.
Any such words that Spock may have uttered are quieted by the intent that lies behind Jim's movement. They gum up in the throat, still beneath the heat and the warmth and Jim's alien scent. It is all that he remembers and all that he recalls, but there is a fresher comfort in it. Like rains after a long drought, the parched soil blackening — Spock feels the kiss he presses to his shoulder like a physical brand. It burns him through the layers of his clothes, settles deep into the core of him. How might Jim have ever questioned that it would be him? How might Jim have never said —
Spock finds himself wishing he might touch him directly. He finds himself wishing to hold Jim's face in his hands, to see him as though he is first seeing him again. He thinks of mapping the spaces between his brow and his eyelid, of sweeping his fingers about the clever twist of his lips. He wishes for so many things, in this one moment, but knows this will have to serve him. That his eyes might do the touching that his body desires, Jim's breath so close to his ear — it seems an obvious choice, to answer in kind.
His hands keep Jim's cradled from just beneath the blankets, but it he who angles himself just so as to press his lips to the crown of his head. More concept than touch, he settles back only after he might find what he wishes to say on his tongue.
"It seems we agree," he says, syllables soft in the mouth. Spock thinks of the golden fields of Jim's memory, thinks of the hands that ran their way through the reaching grasses. "I had... Hesitated to think, that you may have reciprocated."
His mouth quirks at the edges. It is less a smile with the mouth than it is with the eyes, lit-up from within as candles within hurricane glass. He knows the quote Jim chooses well, but it is here that Spock turns over his own.
"I have never held such... Regard for anyone."
Not until you.
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Because she loved Sarek, and she loved their child. The idea that there need be further reasons would never have occurred to her. It certainly doesn't to Jim - it's the kind of love he's always starved for, deep down. Unconditional, permanent. He stopped believing it was real, long ago - but hope, and dreams, they're difficult beasts to kill. Who wouldn't take the hard road, with that kind of love waiting for you at the end of it?
But that is not why Jim cares for him; it's never been about what Spock can offer him. To be frank, Jim had never thought he would have been lucky enough to get that far. It's definitely not because of whatever strange, incomprehensible bond ties them together, across multiple planes of reality - no, it's a simple fact that Jim's never been very good at doing something just because someone tells him to. He chooses Spock, as he is, as he's always been, because sometimes Spock beats him at chess, and sometimes he beats Spock, but never once do they let the other win. He chooses Spock because when Jim burns their vegetarian lasagna dinner, Spock already has the windows open, one eyebrow raised at his ridiculousness. Jim chooses Spock, because to be without him is a reality he does not wish to live in. The thought is intolerable enough he trashed his career for it, and he'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Caring for him is not the hardship that Spock purports it to be. Jim has never understood that - this is where he is, admittedly, the mystified one. How anyone could look at Spock and be repelled seems nonsensical. Intimidated, maybe that he could understand - it was natural to be intimidated by someone you couldn't quite read, but to dislike him? The kind, intelligent soul Jim has come to know? Where's the logic in that?
Jim doesn't think he'll ever stop wondering how this feeling could be reciprocated - that Spock should choose him over any other - but maybe that's okay. Love, after all, is not logical, even for a Vulcan; perhaps Jim should stop expecting it to be.
Spock leans in, and Jim has to consciously release the breath he didn't realize he was holding, heat rising to his cheeks. It's whole-heartedly chaste by anyone's standards, but it still makes his heart leap against his ribcage; embarrassingly so, and it's only the two of them there. Spock's lips press against his hair, the presence of him solid, magnetizing. Closer than they've ever been, save life-threatening situations. They've shared a bed for months, but this is an active choice and it's - different.
He can't very well say he's not feeling the same pull, the urge to express himself in a more human - and decidedly less restrained - manner, but the urge to spare Spock further pain is stronger. To spare himself, too, because if Spock accidentally zaps him through his face he'll probably pass out, which would really kill the vibe.
"Makes no damn sense that there's something to reciprocate, and I'm not on an island by myself, but I can't say I'm complaining." Jim laughs, something nervous and jittery within it but also, perhaps, something freeing, bumping his head against Spock's shoulder one more time before he pulls back, enough to meet his gaze. Spock seems - the only word Jim can ascribe to it is radiant, which seems an odd thing to say about a Vulcan, he's well aware. But it's true, in comparison to the rest of Spock's minute expressions and emotional, human-like eyes - Jim's never seen him look like that. Certainly never aimed at him.
"Neither have I. Not...not like this." Jim admits in return; it seems only right to be truthful, even if it's mildly terrifying, when Spock's verifiable truth is ringing in his ears. I have never held such regard for anyone. Holy fucking shit. "I would never want to jeopardize our friendship. Before I - I just have to say that, Spock, out loud, so you understand. If you ever...didn't reciprocate. It would be okay."
Jim blows out a breath; this entire conversation has been an emotional rollercoaster the likes of which he's not sure he's ever ridden in his entire life, let alone in the span of about an hour. He squeezes Spock's hands again, tight, gaze trailing back up to him. "You must be tired. I can make some tea, if you want to lay down for a spell."
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A mirror of their own doubts of the self, reflected in kind. What Jim sees within Spock is in part mystery to him beyond the merits he provides, but Spock finds within Jim more than he might hold against any reasonable metric. What had drawn Spock to Jim had been a point of confusion at first, but it was difficult not to find himself fascinated by a mind that was so quick and so empathetic — so compassionate, but at once ferocious. It was one that might have matched his, was glad to have his considerations. Over tea and over PADDs, they had discussed any number of topics. He had saved Spock, as much as Spock had sought to save him. He had never left Spock behind. Had never abided by his logic, when it was himself as the price.
Jim challenged him, pushed him. Gentle, always careful, he had coaxed Spock to consider that he was a part instead of apart. He had looked upon him, known him to as he was and is. Accepted it. Accepted it, as Spock came to accept him. Jim was not perfect, but neither was he. They covered what the other lacked. They provided each other considerable strength. Jim to Spock was a keystone — if he were to be removed, he should wonder what would be left. Now so entwined in the nature of his being, it was a concept that bid him to run as much as it rooted him. It was logical (illogical), but it was no less true.
Jim was the only one he might have chosen. There was never any other, that captured him so thoroughly. There was never any other, that smiled over the board at him and plucked from him the vulnerabilities and anxieties. There was never any other, that looked upon his insecurities and saw them as beautiful, a component of him instead.
But, even as they both lean just so out of the other's orbits, Spock hears the nerves that are so repeated in him. Such admissions are never simple, but this — it is a remarkable thing, to know what he does now. He would never have expected it. He would never have thought it possible. He had never allowed himself to want it. Yet, Jim has his own concerns. His own worries. His own thoughts and his self-detractions. Spock knows them. He knows them, but he knows too that Jim must know this.
"Jim," he starts, spinning his rapidly scattering words into loose constellations. A line that starts, he thinks, and ends. "Please understand, Vulcans do not engage in such commitments lightly. We are intentional, focused. We do so only with those who are compatible, who ideally hold traits we find... Compelling." He tips his head, dark eyes gentled in their assessment. But yet, they assess. They look. As though waiting for any flicker of uncertainty, any ounce of repulsion. His posture has loosened, but there is still something guarded in the downward sweep of lashes, the suggestion of a furrow between his angled brows. "Once chosen, it will take much for me to consider otherwise."
It will. Jim has earned his loyalty, his devotion. He has earned Spock's respect. He knows not when his emotions toward Jim veered into something akin to adoration, to the shape of unvoiced love — but, it had been easier for him to keep hidden. It had been easier for him to ignore. To feel as he did, he once reasoned, was unbecoming of any Vulcan. But, was not too the lies he had to tell himself? Was not too the increasingly outlandish reasons he provided himself for why he must stand so close by him, must share so much time when the opportunity prevented itself? But, he knows what it is Jim means. He knows why it is he says it.
Above all else, Spock would struggle most with losing him. If he were relegated to observing his own attachment in silence, he would gladly bear it. He would gladly bear any hardship, if it meant that he might serve by Jim's side. If he might, in any manner Jim would afford, support him. And so, it is like this, that Spock provides an echo of his own sentiments. It is like this, close enough enough that he might discern the brilliance of Jim's eyes in the full cast of daylight, that Spock tips gently to him without pressure or expectation:
"I shall rest, but think upon it." Spock squeezes his hands in return, once — twice. The linens are warmed between the heat of their palms and Spock finds himself more fatigued than he might have once dwelled upon. His mind hums, at once unpleasant and pleasant. "I have no desire to force a decision, to impose upon you the intensity associated."
He knows he should rest. He will not fight any such guidance, but he needs Jim to know it is all right too. He needs him to understand what it is he will be stumbling into. What it is that Spock is thinking, at least like this.
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And then there was their mutual thirst for knowledge which made their conversations so engaging; their uncanny ability to read things in each other that they both endeavored to keep hidden. As much as it sucked, sometimes - as frustrating and prickly as it could be - it was also oddly...freeing. Having another person look at him and see him, and being able to see them in return - who else had Jim ever had that with? Who else would he even want to have that with, if not Spock? Spock, whose ability to make Jim laugh was as unparalleled as it was unexpected, a brightness to his humor and quick wit that always left Jim feeling warm. Spock, who could always be relied upon - even when the odds were stacked against them, back against the wall, everything going to shit - there's no one else he would want at his side.
There's no one else he would want, and maybe the wanting is the scariest part, now that Jim's willful blindfold (if he's being totally honest with himself here; not a habit he wants to repeat, actually, being honest with himself kind of sucks - oh God, ignorance really is bliss) has been pulled from his eyes.
If Spock is looking for repulsion or reticence, he won't find it in Jim, as he meets his focused gaze. No, there is none of that for him - any reservations Jim might have are squarely rooted in his own inadequacies, of which he's more than aware of. It's not that he doubts Spock's words, even as the mild spark of incredulity makes itself apparent in Jim's eyes - it's more that as much as Jim tries, certain things are outside of his realm of understanding. The kind of desire and devotion Spock is describing is as if Jim dreamed it up, but then, it does fall in line with the whole bond situation - Jesus H. Christ. It kind of feels like he's holding a mountain of textbooks, and Spock keeps adding more.
"Don't speak too soon," Jim jokes weakly, though they both know there's a little bit too much self-deprecating truth in the sentence. He can't help but be slightly at a loss, still processing the fact that he just heard that out of Spock's mouth.
If he is asleep, maybe don't wake him up."If I put my mind to it, I bet I could have you running for the hills in under a week. Two, if I'm being thorough."Frankly, Jim's not sure when his feelings towards Spock veered into this territory either - or, maybe he does, but he knows that looking at it too closely is a surefire way to embarrass himself and/or freak himself out more than necessary, so he doesn't. It's much easier to repress things when you're unaware they're there in the first place, when the option is safely closed off, inaccessible from the whole. And yet here - here, it isn't. Here, Spock has opened the option, and Jim -
Fuck. Jim wants. He's so fucked.
"You're never an imposition." Jim rebuts quietly, because it's true, and definitely doesn't mention intensity isn't a problem for me. As if the whole of their friendship hasn't been intense in its own way, anyhow. As if their dalliance at the bar hadn't brought with it a frisson of something Jim was unable to ignore, something that sparked a smoldering heat in the core of his being. He had known what it meant, to engage in that kind of behavior with Spock, and he'd done it anyway. Now there's - additional context, and the freak out he needs to have isn't based in regret: he needs to freak out about the fact that he'd do it again anyway.
Jim stands slowly, his hand moving to squeeze Spock's shoulder reassuringly instead as he does so. A short whistle brings Bones to heel, the dog sliding off the bed and trotting out into the living room - probably best to let Spock have some peace, to get himself back in order. Well, as much order as the Council will allow - and the incandescent rage is back, ah, wonderful.
"I'll be here when you're rested," Jim promises, and it's not a dig for earlier - it's just an earnest promise, maybe even more to himself than it is to Spock. That he won't run, that he will give this the turnabout in his brain it deserves - even if the thought of it is as daunting as it is potentially pleasant, if only Jim will allow himself to...enjoy it. "I'll make grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch, okay?"
Hard to fuck that one up, and who knows if it will actually make Spock feel better about anything to do with the current situation but - it's an offering, and it's within Jim's power to give it. That's enough, for now. It has to be.