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The words were whispered lazily into his ear.
I trusted you.
And it's from this, that Spock knows Jim is waking up.
The Captain is bleary eyed, when he finds himself against Spock’s chest, cradled in the Vulcan's arms. The dawn of what the Commander is doing, rising like the sun in Terra's sky. Glancing down, they often remind Spock of that very thing. So very blue, and wide, then grown black like space itself, as they are enveloped by betrayal.
Jim trusted him. He did. He had; the spot where Spock performed the to'tsu'k'hy, throbbing in a phantom sting in Jim’s neck. But trust was a fine rope where they are concerned. Space was dangerous. They both knew that. Doctor McCoy reminds them of its darkness almost everyday. And it was where Spock had promised to evacuate first, had that trust been broken.
Spock could never do this differently. The ship is crumbling. Her innards, creaking, and spilling into space. She wails from her insides, out. So, it is one path Spock has; shoving the heart of the ship into the last remaining kelvin pod. With quick hands, though they are trembling, Jim is strapped tight, despite the protest the Captain wears on his face. No blood but the red of the klaxon alarms flushing Jim's skin with anger and hurt and how could you.
The Enterprise is hurdling through atmosphere. Barreling through flame. Bits of her, flaking off or melting. Shaving her skin into oblivion.
Spock's fingers move against the glass. Flat, over the reflection of Jim’s face on the other side. The doors have shut.
I know. Spock says, he thinks, wordlessly when he tells him he is sorry. Spock does not look at Jim when he does. Not yet. Spock’s other hand is on the popped out railing for support. The ship’s turned on her bow in space.
"Live long and prosper," whispers into the intercom. Finally, he finds Jim’s eyes.
We will meet again. Just like they are meant to. Just like they always will.
Spock ejects the pod.