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If he's still, Spock can feel the deep thrum of the warp core rattling through the floor and into his bed. When they go warp 4.43 his lyre's 'E' string vibrates sympathetically at the beginning of each matter-antimatter cycle. He's not in here regularly enough to notice if it happens at other frequencies. His jaw is clenched.
He is distracting himself.
They almost died today. Almost. Some were not as fortunate. He sees Ensign Daniels' body when he closes his eyes, he remembers how the white-hot death scream of his psyche ripped through Spock's mind. It is fortunate how Vulcans can share pain, it was regrettable that the young Ensign could not know of or use this comfort to his advantage. Human death was lonely. So, unbearably lonely. Daniels was lonely when he died. His last wish was simply for someone to hold him and tell him he'd be safe. Spock's chest aches.
His computer chimes, signaling a guest. The only desirable guest would be the Captain.
"Come in." He is relieved to see it is Jim. He lies back down.
"Computer, decrease temperature to 23.8 degrees."
Jim doesn't speak, merely moves to join him in the bed. Spock knows. He also needs someone to share his pain. He shivers in the familiar cold.
"Allow me to meld." His hand hesitates over Jim's face, a silent question.
"Spock." Kirk holds his hands. He shouldn't have even come here. He wondered if this was selfish or manipulative, if he knew deep down that Spock's loyalty would put him through pain if it meant helping him.
Guilt. Kirk is half-eaten alive from guilt. Some days he wonders if he deserves to heal from all the wounds that litter his body and mind. But he's so tired his eyes don't focus, and some days his jaw can't open until he takes muscle relaxers. It was the responsibility he took when he was sworn in. The safety of a crewman, a captain, was second to the safety of the ship.
"A Captain's health is beneficial to their crew."
Kirk grinned lazily. "Sometimes, Mr. Spock, I wonder if you can always read minds."
Spock plays along. "Captain, I have no reason to lie about the nature of Vulcan telepathic bonds. But I must point out that we are holding hands." His banter is punctuated with a shiver, and Kirk's mood sinks again.
"Computer, increase temperature to 30 degrees." He silences any of the first officer's protests with a simple look.
"It's your room." Jim drops the slender, olive-tinted hands and rests his head on the taller man's chest. Spock says nothing. 30 degrees was their usual compromise.
"You are attempting to change the subject. Why did you come here?"
"I can't sleep." The familiar burning of shame creeps up his neck. A strong arm squeezes him closer. He wishes Spock could hold him close forever.
"I will help."
Kirk nods. Spock takes several deep breaths.
Eventually fingertips press gently on the sides of his head. He tries to relax his body, giving Spock as much control of the meld as he could muster.
The first time Kirk melded, it was like he was discovering a sixth sense. It felt like another dimension. The familiar abstract shape of thought whirls around him, his mind's eye recognizing this as Spock's mind projecting an idea.
Tonight they are in Spock's mind, mostly. He creates an appropriate setting when there's time to prepare.
It's a small clearing in a nearly silent forest. They're laying on the soft grass. He looked around, impressed at the amount of detail conjured in a few seconds. It was oddly endearing to Kirk that Spock's mental refuge included insects perched on leaves and dirt that soiled clothing. He wondered idly if he came here to meditate. Spock's mind answers yes.
'This is a place I consider calming. Is it satisfactory?' (Do you feel safe here?)
Kirk nods. A gnat-like insect buzzes in his ear.
‘Bugs, Spock?’
‘They are accurate to the setting, yet... I agree they can be undesirable.’
The gnat stops buzzing. (Are you comfortable?)
(Yes.)
They lay together in silence long enough for Kirk to try to count the stars. It's a very clear night. Different colors creep into his peripheral vision. Kirk can feel a barrage of Spock's unrelated thoughts begging for his attention. A hollow ache only described as overwhelming loneliness seeps inside him. As quickly as it comes it's gone- Spock regains focus. Kirk holds onto him tighter. Gratitude that is not his own colors his view.
‘Two methods of emotional support through melding could be appropriate here. I could share and process your pain with you or simply give you relief.’
‘I'm tired Spock, I just want us to sleep.’
‘I will provide relief.’ (I want you to feel better.)
After a moment, Spock starts humming a familiar melody.
‘A lullaby?’ Spock feels that there is no genuine malice or even confusion in his teasing. No words are necessary. He continues humming.
Jim watches his face. He knows the lullaby is simply a way to share feelings of serenity with him. It's working, if his mind's eyes had eyelids, they'd be heavy. No.
He needs to stay awake. He must be vigilant. He needs to find a way to fix things. Daniels will never get to rest again, so why should he? He sees all of them, remembers the way that shock or horror or realization contort their faces. Those expressions define his nightmares. He unclenches his fists and forces himself to breathe. Spock stopped humming.
A pang of sadness and steady, unending compassion that is not his own colors the starry sky a deep purple.
‘Jim, let me take the pain.’ (Relax ashayam.)
Spock holds him and Jim lets him feel and hear every thought. Spock's inner world fades into a murky mix of both their thoughts and impulses. Kirk feels his Vulcan heart beating in his side as if it's his own. He is safe here, but he could not forget them. People who he unwillingly sent to their death. He didn’t know if he wanted to forget anyway.
But Spock understood, if only a little bit. That simple acknowledgement was comforting enough for him to let go, for tonight.
‘Sleep.’
Together, they sleep.