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Spock takes the time to breathe in. He closes his eyes and feels the air enter his lungs, fill them, expand them, then expels the air in one smooth, practised movement. His lungs are steady, but the rest of him is not; his hands are shaking as they have been for the past forty minutes, and he doesn’t trust his voice to be steady.
He forces himself to take in his surroundings. The five-to-one rule.
Five things he can see. One, the huge floor-to-ceiling windows Jim has coveted for so long. Two, the bed - their bed - still rumpled from where neither of them had been bothered to make it that morning. Three, the stack of old paper books that Jim had bought for him. Volumes like Spock’s mother’s beloved “Alice Through the Looking Glass”. Four, the pale, grey walls that Spock had chosen for the room. Five, the aching lack of Jim’s presence in the room.
Four things he can hear. One, his breathing, deep and even. Two, the hum of the electric lights (and he could practically taste how much he hated them). Three, the wind outside, violent and angry. Four, someone shouting outside the room. Shouting about what, he can’t tell.
Three things he can touch. He doesn’t like this one. If he focuses too much on what he can feel, it’ll overwhelm him. Instead, Spock decided to focus on textures around the room, things he could touch if he wanted to. One, the grain in the wooden table. Two, the cotton sheets on the bed. Is it cheating to use the bed twice? Three, the pages of the pile of books. He used the bed twice, after all.
Two things he can smell. The cleaning spray he’d used the day before. The smell of Jim’s cologne coming out from the bathroom.
One thing he can taste. The remnants of his breakfast.
Spock spends a few minutes gathering himself together. He changed out of his robes into a jumper and some trousers. The oversized knitted turtleneck is heavy on his shoulders. Good. He finds a clean corner of the room and curls up into it, bringing his knees to his chest, hugging them, and placing his head on top. He rocks himself from side to side, a slow, rhythmic motion, one he hopes will help calm himself down and stop the assault of physical sensations on his skin.
The door opens some time later, and Jim steps in. “Spock?” He calls, and Spock curls up further into himself at the volume. “Spock, you in here?”
It’s stupid, Spock thinks to himself, that all it takes for his meltdown to return at full force is two sentences.
His breathing quickens and his rocking speeds up to match. He curls further in on himself, and changes his direction so he’s rocking back and forth, hitting his shoulders on the wall. It’s this noise which alerts Jim.
“Spock?” Jim calls, quieter this time. He crouches in front of Spock, careful to keep distance. He doesn’t touch him.
“Spock, it’s okay,” Jim says softly. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
This isn’t the first time they’ve dealt with meltdowns. Between Spock’s autism and Jim’s PTSD, it’s a wonder the couple manage to get anything done outside of constant hyperventilation. But it also means they’re good at calming the other down.
Jim offers water, a blanket, and a hug, all of which Spock rejects. Sometimes he’s more comfortable with things than other times. Jim offers silence, which Spock also rejects - those goddamn electric lights feel like they’re drilling into his skull. So Jim talks, voice low and soothing, and Spock concentrates on it.
Spock isn’t entirely sure what Jim talks about. He can’t fully process the words - as soon as he hears them, he forgets. It happens. Jim wouldn’t be telling him anything important during a meltdown, anyway. He’s kinder than that. Spock hears something about Sulu, something about Uhura, and he’s fairly sure they’re linked, but by what he couldn’t say. And that’s fine. He doesn’t bother doing the five-to-one exercise again, just lets his breathing slow.
When he’s stopped hyperventilating, Jim asks if he’s okay to move to the bed.
“Lie down with me,” Jim says. “It’ll be okay.”
Spock hesitates, but when he looks at Jim and sees the concern and the love in his eyes, he complies without complaint. This is his Jim, he reminds himself, and he trusts him.
Jim takes the other side of the bed. There’s a gap between them. Spock appreciates the space; he needs it but that doesn’t mean he wants to be alone. He lies on his side, facing his T’hy’la, a hand under his waist and the other resting by his chest. Jim wiggles around a bit, searching for a comfortable position, before eventually rolling over onto his front. He folds his arms to create a pillow (unnecessary, since the bed has at least four), and turns his head to look at Spock. There is so much love in his eyes that Spock nearly cries.
“Are you warm enough?” Jim asks softly. Spock is a little cold, but Jim is sweating so he refuses to admit it. It annoys Spock that his range of comfortable temperatures is so much higher than Jim’s. Spock nods, and he knows Jim knows he is lying. Even so, neither of them make a move to help him. He appreciates that.
They lie together in silence for a while longer, just looking. Spock is, yet again, absolutely floored by how beautiful Jim is in the early morning light. The sun hits him in such a way that it highlights his cheekbones and his smile, and Spock just looks and looks, heart full to bursting.
When his heart rate is down and he can breathe again, Spock looks at Jim and blinks slowly, signalling he is better. He’s not ready to talk, not yet, but he can stand a few touches. Jim’s shoulders relax and his smile grows impossibly more loving. He reaches out one of his steady Captain’s hands and rests on Spock’s jaw.
Jim gently runs a thumb over Spock’s cheekbone, tenderly rubbing back and forth. Spock leans forward into the touch; he loves it more than he’d ever tell. Eventually, Jim’s hand settles at the top of his neck, his thumb coming to rest just under Spock’s ear. He looks at Spock in a way that Spock, for all his eloquence and verbosity, could never explain, yet he understands perfectly. He never wants to leave this moment; he wants to stay, to rest, to be allowed to love Jim without being required to touch him more than is necessary.
When Spock is ready (he’s not sure if it’s been minutes or hours), he brings his hand up from his chest and rests his fingers on top of Jim’s. Jim’s smile grows wider, but his eyes still remain impossibly soft.
“I love you,” he whispers. “You don’t have to talk,” he adds.
Spock presses his fingers down a little harder in response, then says, “I love you too.”