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It’s almost 0200, ship standard time, when Jim finally gives up trying to sleep. He’s been tossing and turning all night – can’t stop thinking about how much of a mess the last week has been, his mind running through events over and over, trying to imagine how he could have avoided the shit show planetside. It doesn’t help that some project down in the science department has kept Spock out of bed for the last two nights in a row. Jim wouldn’t admit this to anyone – not even Spock, but the absence of his slightly cooler body, heavy on the slim mattress, pressed against Jim’s back makes it even more difficult for him to find sleep. It’s embarrassing – actually a little pathetic, he thinks – that he has become so reliant on Spock for comfort in the darkness of their cabin, but it’s a truth he finds he has to face, lying in his bed and feeling bereft of his partner’s presence.
He sits up in bed, still in the dark, and rubs at his face. Sleep’s been eluding him for too long, and his skin feels dry and tight with want of rest. His eyes seem to stick open and shut, lethargically moving from one state to the other, and his jaw aches with tension. The bones in his legs – his femurs to his metatarsals – seem to pulsate with soreness that he hasn’t felt in ages and his ribs feel stuck, unmoving in his torso even as he breathes deeply. All of this and not even a good fight to show for it. Jim sighs loudly, wishing Spock would just walk through the door and then chastises himself for having such codependent thoughts. He’s positive that Spock doesn’t need him around just to have a good night’s sleep; that much is clear from his recent absence from their bed – that, or Spock wasn’t lying when he said Vulcans needed less rest than humans.
Jim eventually levers himself out of the bed, leaving the sheets and blanket in a rumpled disarray, and shuffles towards the closet. He attempts to order the lights on, but his voice doesn’t seem to be working – it’s caught in his throat which is sticky with lack of rest and some other emotion that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. He fumbles around for a t-shirt and pulls it on. Walking around the ship in sleep pants and a t-shirt isn’t a common practice, but it’s unlikely he’ll run into anyone on the ship at this hour. “Computer,” he tries again, and his voice works a bit better this time, though it’s pretty hoarse. “What is Commander Spock’s location?”
“Laboratory 4,” the computer tells him, the automatic voice sounding particularly cold and emotionless in the darkness of his quarters. Jim leaves without putting socks or shoes on and makes his way to the turbo lift. The lights in the hallways are at 40% - there’s a minimal crew on Gamma shift and most of the ship is asleep right now. Jim envies them. As the lift moves, he looks down at his feet, chill seeping into them from the smooth surface of the floor, and he regrets not putting on socks, at least.
The door of the lift opens and Jim steps out, walks towards the lab, where he knows Spock is working much later than he should be. He’s overcome with emotions he doesn’t want to acknowledge, and he stops to lean against the wall for a moment. There is a soft light coming from inside, noticeable only because of the dim lighting in the hallways, and he can hear Spock’s stylus tapping on the screen of a PADD. There’s the quiet slide of glass across a surface, the clicking sound of Spock using some equipment. It’s oddly soothing, leaning there, feeling the cool surface below his feet, and listening to Spock work. There’s a familiar scent in the air, too, something that Spock often smells like – something Jim can’t name, but that brings a sense of comfort with it. He starts to feel like he is drifting, his head lilting to the side so that his ear almost rests on his shoulder.
“Jim?” Spock’s baritone voice is uncharacteristically quiet when he speaks. Jim’s eyes flutter open, still slow to follow his directions, and he sees Spock standing in the doorway of the lab, a PADD in his hands. He hadn’t even heard Spock’s footsteps or the lack of noise resulting from the pause in his work. Spock looks somewhat worried, one of his eyebrows slightly raised and a quirk in his mouth. But it’s his eyes that speak most loudly to Jim, something in them, the way they dart from Jim’s face to his bare feet and then back up again – likely taking in his bed head and glassy eyes. “Are you unwell?” Spock asks. He takes another step towards Jim and Jim thinks about how Spock looks so calm and well put together, his uniform unwrinkled, even though he’s been working for almost 24 hours, his gait unhurried as he moves into Jim’s personal space.
“Just tired,” Jim manages, though his attempt to wave off Spock’s concern works less effectively when he is unable to raise his hand and gesture.
“Why did you come here?” Spock asks. His voice doesn’t sound unkind or accusatory, just curious. Confused.
“I couldn’t sleep. You haven’t been to bed in two days.” Jim winces. He hadn’t meant to add that last part. He and Spock have only been together for a short while and he can’t have Spock thinking he’s too needy.
But Spock doesn’t really seem to react to the comment. He tilts his head a modicum to the left and breathes in. “I apologize. I did not know that my absence would cause you distress.” Spock thinks for another moment and then reaches out to touch Jim’s bicep. “I will require approximately 47 minutes to complete my current task. I would be amenable to your presence, if you wish to join me.”
“Okay,” Jim says, because he really doesn’t want to go back to bed alone. He lets Spock guide him into the lab, onto one of the lab stools, where he can rest his elbows on the counter in front of him, his chin in his palms. The light in the lab isn’t too bright, and he wonders if that helps Spock to work somehow. It’s quiet, no noise other than the constant hum of the ship and the whir of the cold storage fan. Spock stands next to Jim, close enough that his arm might brush Jim’s on occasion. “What’re you working on?”
Spock doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he rubs his hands with a sanitizing solution and then pulls on a pair of sterile gloves. The nitrile snaps against his skin and Jim grins a little at the clash of the purple gloves against Spock’s blue shirt. Then Spock shifts next to Jim, his fingers moving across a selection of test tubes. There is the slight clinking of glass as he does so. He chooses one and picks it up before replying. Jim lifts his feet to rest them on the footrest of the stool, a cold bar of metal that feels smooth against the arches of his feet. “I do not think it would be of interest to you,” Spock finally says. He tilts the test tube in his hand and looks closely at it before pulling out a microscopic slide and setting it down on the counter. The glass clicks quietly with his precise movements.
Jim watches as Spock opens a drawer and pulls out a sterile pipette, twists open the top of the test tube, and extracts some of the green liquid inside. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t care,” Jim says, but there’s no bite in his words. Even if there was, it would be completely mitigated by the yawn and quiet sigh that follows. He decides to rest his head, just for a moment, and leans forward, pillowing his cheek on his forearms so that he can still watch Spock work. Jim’s back is arched a little awkwardly in order to maintain the position and he knows he’ll be sore in a short while.
Spock looks over at Jim for a moment, the pipette in one hand and the test tube in the other. His lip seems to move only a minuscule amount, but it looks to Jim like a smile. Then Spock reaches over with his foot and depresses a lever on the stool, dropping it down a few inches so that Jim is resting in a more comfortable position. Then he looks back at his hands, moving to set the test tube in a stand so that he can put the liquid onto the slide. His voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “While we were on Arthon, I managed to collect a number of samples from plant life that I am now studying. As you may recall, we became aware of the high concentration of aerosolized oxygen specifically local to areas of intense forestation.” Jim manages to hold in a yawn and watches as Spock places the pipette on a plate before reaching for a slide cover. He’s meticulous as he centres the thin glass over the drop of liquid he has placed on the slide. He moves against the counter and Jim hears the fabric of his shirt rustle against the metal surface. “I hypothesized that the plants on Arthon produced larger amounts of oxygen than we have previously seen during the process of photosynthesis.”
“Okay,” Jim says, still following along, even if his eyelids are drooping. The room feels temperate, the air cool but not cold against his skin. The shirt he’s wearing feels soft and the metal footrest has become warm under his feet. He listens to the quiet snick of the microscope’s clamps as Spock locks the slide into place and looks at the viewfinder, twisting the knobs on the side to focus and zoom in.
Spock continues, his voice still low and quiet – soothing. “And, if I am able to establish that I am correct in my hypothesis, we may be able to utilize the genetic structure of the Arthon plants to modify the plants grown on the Enterprise so that they produce higher levels of oxygen. This would reduce the strain on our CO2 scrubbers and limit the amount of maintenance necessary.”
“That’s a lot of hypotheticals,” Jim mumbles, unsure if Spock is able to understand him. His eyes have closed almost entirely – though he can still see the blue of Spock’s shirt as he moves, recording his findings on his PADD.
“You are correct,” Spock agrees. “That is why I have chosen to engage in these studies when I am not on shift.” There is quiet for a moment as Spock focuses on whatever it is that he’s doing and Jim starts to feel that same floating sensation he felt earlier in the hall, like he’s about to drift off, untethered and without gravity. His mouth feels a little dry, but he focuses instead on the way that his heartbeat and breath have both slowed to a steady rhythm. He feels his skin buzzing, almost like he can feel the vibrations of his atoms just under the surface, up and down his spine, along the length of his arms. He wants to say something to Spock, but his mind feels like it’s detached from what his body is doing - the same sensation he feels when he’s drifting between sleep and wakefulness when he and Spock are cuddling in bed. When he feels safe, content. The feeling is rare, and he indulges in it for a moment. Then he hears Spock remove his gloves, the quiet hush of fabric, and feels Spock’s cool fingers on the back of his neck, dancing on his hairline. “Sleep, now, Ashayam,” Spock murmurs, so quietly that Jim wonders if he was actually meant to hear it. “I will be here when you wake.”