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It’s a lot/ to put your heart on another’s train tracks,
to not take a loved one hostage with your own fear,
with what you don’t want to know about yourself.
"It's A Lot" - Jon Sands
Jim is tired. There’s a persistent ache behind his eyelids, and he can’t help slumping into his seat in the mess even with Bones’ watchful eyes on him. It has been four days since he watched Kodos die, and he’s been avoiding this, avoiding Bones. But Yeoman Rand’s gaze on him has been almost as sharp as the doctor’s whenever she’s brought him his meals, so he had given her the day off in an attempt to escape her scrutiny. He couldn’t skip a meal. Not now. So he’s here, trying not to slouch, as Bones looks at the rather large cup of coffee he’s procured.
Jim smiles. He feels the tightness in his cheeks. Bones scowls, and his hand twitches towards his medical tricorder resting on the seat next to him.
“Long time no see,” Bones says in a deceptively light tone. His face still looks stern, and Jim has known the man long enough to understand what’s loaded behind the statement.
“Well, the ship won’t run herself,” he says and wraps his hand tighter around his steaming cup.
Bones gives a noncommittal hum, and Jim knows how unconvincing he sounds. He has been searching and scraping for every bit of work he can find. He’s cleared out a backlog of paperwork and read through every report that crossed his PADD. Scotty’s yeoman has started avoiding him in the halls after the third time he had, perhaps with too much enthusiasm, asked him if he was sure the lieutenant didn’t have any new reports to send his way.
He feels like he’s on the examination table, and he fights the urge to retreat to his quarters, or better still, the bridge.
“Are you eating enough?” Bones asks with narrowed eyes.
“Three square meals a day,” Jim says, relieved that he doesn’t have to lie. He’s been meticulous about his food since he first spoke with Tom. Slowly, carefully eating each bite even though he can’t taste it.
“Sleeping enough?”
“When do I ever sleep enough?” Jim stands up. He has to keep one hand on the table to keep himself steady. He can feel Bones track him as he goes to the food synthesizer, and he straightens his spine as he returns to the table with a plate of nutritional cubes.
“I could give you something for that, you know,” Bones says, ignoring the interruption.
“You know I can’t take sleeping pills,” Jim says, shooting Bones a glance he knows is sterner than it should be.
“A light dose. Just something to cut through the noise in that brain of yours. Get you to sleep, but you won’t be groggy if there’s a red alert in the middle of the night.”
Jim takes a deep breath. Feels the oxygen in his lungs and the breeze of it leaving his mouth as he exhales. “I won’t take sleeping pills, Bones. I’m fine.” There’s an edge to his voice that he regrets, and he tries to soften it with a smile, but he can tell it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Counseling then,” Bones says simply.
Jim watches the tines of his fork cut into the red gelatinous cube on his plate and grimaces. “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”
“Hardly. I can set you up with someone good. Someone off-ship. You’ve been through the ringer out here, Jim, and there’s no harm in talking it through with a specialist.”
Jim shakes his head. “I don’t need to talk about it anymore. I need to get back to work.”
“You need sleep. I’m going to put in the call unless…” Bones looks towards the door and when Jim follows his gaze he sees his first officer standing by a cluster of tables, talking to Ensign Saad.
He’s been avoiding Spock too, as much as he can. It makes him feel strange and unsettled, but thinking about spending time with Spock is worse. All Jim can see are those considerate brown eyes that saw way more than he had wanted. Jim is certain Spock will immediately be able to tell something is still wrong the moment Jim opens his mouth to talk about anything not directly related to ship’s business. He flushes now, thinking about how quickly Spock had put together the shattered pieces of his past on Tarsus. He had thought that he was in control. Spock had known he wasn’t. Spock had seen the weakness in him.
And in truth, Jim has been avoiding Spock since before that party at the Leighton’s. Has been avoiding him since all the business with Captain Pike. Jim still can see Spock’s closed face during the trial when he shuts his eyes. He has felt the echo of Spock’s silence stretching between them since Spock escorted Pike back to Talos IV.
Spock’s face is open now. Ensign Saad is gesturing wildly with her hands as she speaks, and Spock is responding with his own brand of enthusiasm. Jim looks away and realizes Bones is still talking.
“I’d have to ask him of course. He’s stubborn about these Vulcan things, but even he has to admit that it doesn’t do anyone any good having you walking around half out of your mind.”
“Ask Spock what exactly?” Jim asks, hoping that Bones has not already explained it in full.
“About the neuro-pressure…”
Bones fumbles through an explanation, some sort of Vulcan massage, and Jim can feel the unspoken plea when he looks at him. So Jim agrees. He regrets it immediately, and by the time he’s waiting in his quarters for Spock to arrive, he feels ready to crawl out of his skin. The chime of his door is almost a relief. He’s already standing by the door; he presses the release button almost immediately after the signal.
Spock starts, but his face quickly relaxes back into composure.
“Captain,” he says. There’s something cautious in his manner — in the way he takes a step back when Jim opens the door, in the way his shoulders are slightly stooped, in the serious look in his eyes. It causes the ache in Jim’s chest to pulse; still, at the same time a bitter wave of satisfaction rolls over him. There is some petty, angry part of him that wants Spock to feel a portion of the hurt Jim has been carrying beneath his ribs.
Nevertheless, Jim swallows it down and nods in greeting, before realizing that he is forcing both of them to stand in the doorway. He steps aside and gestures Spock inside. Spock scans the room, his eyes lingering on the haphazard pile of PADDs on Jim’s desk and the unopened bottle of pills by his bed.
“Did the doctor explain what it is we will be doing?” Spock asks.
“He told me my options were letting you do some Vulcan hocus-pocus to my brain — his words exactly — taking the sleeping pills, or being taken off duty. I didn’t ask for the details.”
Spock opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Jim squeezes his hands together.
“Neuro-pressure is effective for both physical and mental relaxation. The doctor believes it could help you re-establish an effective sleep schedule.”
“And you’re alright with this?” Jim asks, because he can see Bones cornering Spock, threatening him with the idea that Bones could relieve Jim of command. If Spock doesn’t want this, it would make things easier for Jim — simpler.
“I am more than willing to help.” He says succinctly and then removes his boots, and Jim is thrown for a moment, staring at them neatly aligned at the foot of his bed. Spock gestures to the bed, and Jim sits, feeling flushed and overheated. Exhaustion sits heavy under his skin, and the reality of Spock sitting across from him on his bed is crashing down on him.
“Neuro-pressure works through the stimulation of neural nodes and pressure points.” Spock’s voice is steady. He sounds like he is instructing an ensign about the proper way to recalibrate a sensor. He extends a hand towards Jim’s chest. “May I?”
“By all means,” Jim says and watches as Spock places a hand on the center of his sternum. The touch feels cool. Like a cool glass of lemonade against his wrist on the hottest day of summer. “There’s a neural node on my chest?”
“No,” Spock says, “First you must practice your breathing.”
“Thirty-three years breathing and I didn’t realize I needed to practice,” Jim says, already regretting the joke before the sentence is complete. Spock does him a favor by not responding beyond a quirk of his eyebrow.
“Breath in through your nose,” he instructs.
Spock walks him through a set of simple directions while Jim tries to focus on Spock’s words and not the feeling of his fingers splayed across Jim’s skin. There are dual impulses fighting in Jim’s gut: a part of him that wants to twist away from Spock, wants to refuse any additional intimacy and the vulnerability it brings. The other part wants to place his hand over Spock’s, wants to revel in the feel of their touching skin.
Spock has touched him before. Spock touches him all the time, actually. More than Jim would expect a Vulcan to: a hand on his shoulder — fleeting but sure, a tug on his wrist pulling him from danger, a surreptitious tap to communicate unspoken wariness. It happens often enough that Jim starts to miss it in its absence. And it has been absent as of late. After the incident with Pike, Jim stood at a deliberate distance, and Spock, perceptive as always, has kept his hands tucked behind his back.
But now, Spock’s touch feels intentional and sure, and Jim can’t quite pinpoint why it feels so different, but it makes heat creep under his skin. It’s a touch for touch’s sake, and it brings to mind ways that Jim has imagined Spock touching him in scarce hours of the night when his mind drifts, maudlin and wistful.
Jim swallows, very aware that Spock is paying attention to his breath, can probably feel his heartbeat and is smart enough to intuit what changes in the patterns could mean. Jim forces his mind back to count. One, two, three, four. Inhale. He looks at the red of his bedspread, away from Spock’s long fingers on his chest, away from Spock’s eyes. They stay like that for several minutes. Silent. Jim’s breath sounds loud in his ears.
“Good,” Spock says, his voice is gentle, and Jim is once again reminded of the way he talks to new ensigns in his lab. “You appear to have mastered the breathing technique.”
He moves his hand, and Jim meets his eyes. Still mindful of his breath, he smiles. “You’ll make a Vulcan of me yet, eh?”
Spock’s mouth twitches and his eyes warm in a way that always lights up something deep inside Jim’s chest. “This is one of the first exercises taught to Vulcan children.”
Jim chuckles. “Noted.”
Spock regards him for a moment, softness lingering in his features.
“Remove your shirt.”
Jim’s breath stutters, but he pulls his shirt over his head, very aware of Spock’s eyes on him as he folds the shirt and shakily places it by his pillow.
He focuses on keeping his count steady in his head and closes his eyes as Spock reaches across the scant space between them. Jim shivers as Spock’s hand strokes down the side of Jim’s neck. His nipples harden, and gooseflesh rises along his arms. He can feel his face heating; he swallows, exhales. One, two, three, four.
Spock rubs a gentle circle between the tendons of Jim’s neck and then presses down hard. There’s a small pang of pain, and then the tension in his shoulders releases, the muscles softening as he rolls them back. His breath shakes on the exhale.
“Lift your arms,” Spock says. His touch lingers on Jim’s neck for a moment before moving to the side of his chest. Fingers gliding deftly across Jim’s skin, Spock pauses to press firmly against unseen nodes before he instructs Jim to shift to his side, and his fingers ghost along Jim’s spine.
Spock’s touch still feels electric, though Jim thinks he may be growing accustomed to it, with those long fingers applying pressure right at the base of his neck. Jim is starting to wonder if this will be easier than he was expecting. If he won’t have to address any thoughts that feel heavy and grim in his mind. Like the double blows of Spock’s betrayal and his easy understanding of Jim’s past. Like the way Jim knows that, if he is able to find sleep again, he will be tortured by horrifying dreams of Kodos’ voice, and, perhaps worse, ardent dreams about the way the pads of Spock’s fingers feels against his bare back.
“One of your strengths as Captain is your ability to think critically about the future and the past: to predict likely outcomes in order to steer events towards the favorable ones, and to analyze past actions and experiences in order to learn from them. However, right now, it could be beneficial to focus your thoughts on the present.”
Jim lets out a breathy laugh. “I suspect that if I had that kind of control over my thoughts, we would not be here in the first place.”
He’s glad that his face is turned from Spock; he can feel his cheeks heating at the vulnerability underlying those words. A good captain is always in control. Regulated, and measured, and not victim to the whims of his own mind.
“I was not suggesting you control your thoughts. Total control over one’s thoughts is a futile endeavor. Focus on the current moment, the sensations, your breathing, what you see in front of you. Your thoughts will not stay focused, but that is less important than your ability to redirect them back to the present.”
Spock’s voice is calm. Jim narrows his focus to the firmness of the mattress below him as his chest expands on his inhales, to the ambient sounds of his ship, to the feeling of Spock’s cool fingers gently moving along the sides of his spine. Spock’s fingers are deft and deliberate. Jim can imagine what they would feel like threading through his hair or intertwined with his own as they... And that is not a thought about the present. Jim brings his focus back to his breathing. Spock gently slides a hand underneath him and pushes so Jim rolls easily on to his back. Spock moves so he is now kneeling over him, his legs straddling Jim’s. Spock is fully clothed, but Jim feels painfully aware of the intimacy of this position, of the fact that they are on Jim’s bed, and that Jim is just wearing nothing but his uniform pants. With another shift Spock grants Jim a short reprieve from the intimacy of their position.
“Remove your pants.”
Jim holds back a nervous laugh, but lifts his hips and tugs the pants down, leaving him in just his regulation briefs and socks. He swallows. It is nothing short of a miracle that he doesn’t whimper when Spock places a hand on his leg, a few inches above his knee. It is impossible for him to keep his thoughts focused now, for him not to imagine Spock’s hand continuing to trail up his leg, what it might feel like to have those skilled fingers seek out something besides muscle tension and neural nodes. His breath hitches, and he is sure that Spock can feel his pulse speeding up underneath the touch.
Spock settles back against his own heels, and his face remains impassive. He rubs in a circular motion against Jim’s leg, and Jim is slightly transfixed by the way by the way the softness of his own flesh contrasts with the slender lines of Spock's hands. Spock presses against some particular point that makes Jim feel like he is melting back into his bed. He sighs, feeling the weight of every sleepless night in all of his limbs.
As Spock moves his hand further up Jim’s thigh, Jim has to grit his teeth against the prickle of arousal low in his abdomen. It feels cruel for Jim to be confronted with his attraction to Spock now: yet another way he is vulnerable to him. Another reason they are not on even footing.
Spock shifts his position slightly and says, “I confess, I find I am having difficulty keeping my thoughts in the present moment myself.”
For one wild moment Jim thinks that Spock is about to do exactly what Jim has been fantasizing about, tell him that he is just as affected by this contact as Jim is, slide his hand up Jim’s thigh.
But what Spock says is, “I cannot help but wonder if it were not for the recent events with Captain Pike, that you would have brought me into your confidence regarding your suspicions about Kodos.”
The warmth that had been exuding beneath his skin vanishes. Jim wishes that he was not lying here, so exposed beneath Spock for this conversation. Anger, which has felt distant, more like an echo than an actual feeling, suddenly feels much more palpable. But he’s tired, beyond the bone deep weariness from his last week of restless nights. He’s tired of hardening himself to Spock. So he counts his breaths again, very aware of Spock’s unwavering eyes on him as he does.
He feels cut open. It’s difficult not to compare Spock’s apt observation to the fact that Spock was recently able to conceal so much from him. It makes Jim feel transparent.
“It appears, Mr. Spock, there isn’t much I can hide from you,” he says. There’s a bitterness in his gut again, something he can’t quite shake. Words like mutiny and betrayal echo inside his mind. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch whatever is happening on Spock’s face. Spock starts to draw his hand back, but then must change his mind because his hand lingers. It makes his touch softer; it tickles the hair on Jim’s thigh. Jim does his best to focus on his breath, waiting for some verbal response from Spock.
“I do not regret my actions,” Spock says in a carefully measured voice.
When Jim opens his eyes, Spock is looking at his own hand on Jim’s leg. He moves it quickly, as if he senses Jim’s regard, then digs his thumb into a new point. It pinches, and Jim focuses on the sensation.
“I do, however, regret the rift it has caused in our professional relationship…” A pause as his fingers rub a circle on Jim’s skin. “And our personal relationship,” Spock adds, his voice tight.
“It’s not a rift,” Jim says. He adjusts pulling himself up so he rests against the wall. “It’s...” Jim doesn’t know how to name whatever has shattered in his heart, first from Spock’s lies, Spock’s lack of trust in him, and then again as he turned away from Spock’s reaching questions about the man who turned out to be Kodos. “It’s a stumbling block. It was bound to happen eventually. Yes, maybe I would have gone to you. Maybe I wanted to.”
There’s a part of Jim that wants to be petty now, that wants Spock to carry the ache that has been eating into Jim. It might feel good for a moment, but he knows that it will be fleeting, doesn’t even know if he could tolerate watching hurt in Spock’s fathomless eyes.
“It didn’t matter in the end,” Jim says, avoiding a striking blow, “you figured it out on your own.”
He can hear the weakness in his voice and regrets it immediately. Spock’s hands are still on him,still pressing and rubbing, and Jim feels like he is going to be completely absorbed by the contradiction of emotions within himself. He knows Spock shields his telepathic abilities, but he is so overwhelmed that he wonders if the relentlessness of his own emotions is leaking through whatever mental barriers Spock has in place. Wonders at the disadvantage that might provide him, though Spock doesn’t need to sense his emotions to read him, that much has been made clear.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” Spock says. “I understand that you desired privacy in this matter, but I was concerned. I would have preferred to learn of what you experienced on Tarsus from you.” It could have been a reprimand, but his voice is soft, and Jim understands what Spock is saying. If circumstance hadn’t forced the matter, he might have divulged this to Spock, in a quiet moment, alone in his quarters. It would have been a moment where they built trust instead of eroding it. Spock would have listened. He would have accepted the knowledge of Jim’s experience like it was a gift. Jim swallows back a swell of regret.
“I would have liked to tell you,” he says. His face twists into a ironic smile.
Spock is quiet. He shifts shifts and moves his hands to Jim’s chest. Jim wonders for a moment if this is it. If maybe all they can achieve right now is a mutual understanding of regret. Spock is leaning over him now, fingers drumming a rhythm against Jim’s ribs. Jim has to look at the ceiling to avoid looking at Spock’s face.
“When I was a child,” Spock says, “I would often go into the desert. I was creating a map of the location of each species of flora I encountered. On one of these ventures, I came across a sehlat cub. It was hunting, not successfully, a va’amau butterfly. I was so captivated by the cub’s endeavors that I did not see the signs of the approaching sandfire storm. It was on us before either of us could seek shelter. I watched as the cub was hit with a strike of lightning. I acted rather rashly and picked it up as I ran for a cave system I had passed earlier in the day.
“I made it to safety, but the sehlat cub was badly injured. There was nothing for me to do but watch over him and wait for the storm to pass. The cub was clearly frightened, distressed, and in a large amount of pain. I did something foolish then. At the time, I had been learning how to manage pain through meditation, and I believed that if I were to meld with the animal, I would be able to ease his pain and fear.
“It was too much for my poorly trained mind. The connection grew deeper than I had intended. The panic he was feeling became my own, and I was blind to anything else. I could not break the link. I could feel the beating of his heart as if it were my own. We were still joined as his heartbeats grew erratic, and then slowed.
“When a man in my father’s employ found us, the cub was dead, and I was near death. I awoke in the hospital. My father talked to me at length about the poor decisions I had made, my lack of control, the illogic of my actions. For months afterwards, every time I began to fall asleep, I would dream about the cub, and the moment where I felt life leave his body. There are still times where I find myself thinking of this experience. There are still times where the memory stretches my ability to control my emotions,” Spock finishes with the distinct air of a confession.
Jim takes a deep breath and for the first time in weeks it feels like he fills his lungs. Spock’s hands still on his chest, and Jim cannot help reaching for him. He places one hand over Spock’s, their fingers sliding together. He squeezes before releasing his hand. It’s brief, and Jim has to fight against his own desire to keep hold of Spock’s hand.
“Thank you,” Jim says, because words seem necessary. This seem to bring Spock back to the moment. His fingers brush against Jim’s chest as they withdraw.
“Dr. McCoy informed me that you have not been sleeping,” Spock says. He’s sitting back on his heels, his hands pressed firmly against his own thighs.
“I suppose that depends on your definition of sleeping,” Jim says. Now that the emotions have lessened, Jim can feel the tiredness creeping in the edges of his mind. It makes the room feel slightly blurred; the only thing in focus is Spock.
“If you are parsing the definition of sleep, I believe it would be prudent to assume that you are not getting the recommended number of hours per night.”
Jim laughs. “Fair enough.”
“There are several significant neural nodes located in the feet,” Spock says and gestures to Jim’s socked feet before asking, “May I?”
Jim nod assent and tries not to blush as Spock pulls down a sock. It’s just a sock, but the fact that Spock is undressing him, in any shape or form, feels so surreal that he can’t look away.
Spock’s face stays impassive. His eyes fixed on the task at hand. He folds the socks and places them next to Jim’s other clothes.
Jim tries to focus on his breathing, to keep this thoughts tethered to the reason for the touch, without dwelling to much on the strength of Spock’s fingers against his bare skin. He counts breaths. He looks at a spot on his ceiling that looks suspiciously like phaser fire and tries to recall how it could have gotten there. Spock is holding his foot in one hand, his fingers delicate around Jim’s ankle. He presses on the center of his foot, and Jim feels a warm relaxed sensation slink up his legs. Shifting back towards Jim, Spock gently turns him on his side to touch his neck. For the first time in days, Jim wants to sleep. He wants Spock to stay there with him, some kind of watchful sentry, whose presence might be enough to prevent the nightmares he is sure will come.
Spock’s touch tickles slightly at the nape of his neck. Jim wonders what it feels like to him, wonders if he has ever imagined touching Jim here — such an intimate part of the body, one meant for kisses and desperate pulling touches. Or, he supposes, Vulcan massage after someone is forced to face... he stiffens, not quite able to describe exactly what kind of specter Kodos has been in his life.
“Tomorrow,” Spock says, “You will step on to that bridge and you will not be diminished as a captain or a man. That will be as true then as it is now. Tomorrow you will be strong, but perhaps, at this moment, in this room, you do not need to be.” Spock’s thumb brushes against the corner of Jim’s jaw. “If you wish to speak about it,” Spock adds, of course he felt Jim tense, “I am not the doctor, nor am I especially skilled at dealing with human emotions. But I am quite capable of listening.”
Jim lets out a breath, takes another. He thinks about Spock seeing him now and the ache of being opened up in this way. He thinks about Spock’s careful, deliberate words as he spoke about the sehlat cub. All the ways he has allowed Jim behind his walls and the all ways he hasn’t. He wonders how much he can tolerate, and in the same moment, decides that it doesn’t matter.
“You’ve always been quite skilled at dealing with my human emotions.”
Spock makes a soft noise, keeps his thumb aligned with Jim’s spine as he slides the rest of his fingers across the curve of Jim’s neck.
“I spoke about it so much after it happened. To my mother, and father, and Federation psychologists and psychiatrists. Even an admiral who made me repeat things over and over until I was sure I had answered her questions wrong. That was in the past. I believed it was in the past.”
Jim can feels his chest tightening. He can smell the sterile citrus scent of the rooms in the ’Fleet outpost on the starbase where all the survivors were taken to after they were finally rescued. He can almost taste the chalky dense nutritional cubes the staff fed them, see the pinched face and narrow nose of the nutritionist who would put his hand on Jim’s arm if he ate too fast.
“Tarsus was over. I was past it, and I was strong enough that I would never be in such a situation again. Strong enough that I could prevent it from happening to anyone again.”
“Even you are not able to prevent every evil,” Spock says, “no matter how vigilant you are.”
“I don’t expect to be able to prevent it all. Just maybe the same one from repeating again. Tom...” He shuts his eyes; Spock’s fingers trace around his neck to rest against his collarbone in a way that Jim might define as a caress if he were a bit more lost to the moment. The darkness behind his eyelids rearranges itself into Tom’s lifeless eyes. Jim breaths in. Out. He tries not to let his thoughts slide again. He fails. Bodies in shallow graves next to fields of rotting grain. The feel of walls pressing on either side of him. Loudspeakers crackling, an inescapable voice.
“Every day, you perform your duties as a Starfleet captain. You make difficult decisions based on a complex equation of complex factors. This situation was not different. You made the most logical decision, based on the information that you had at your disposal.”
Spock’s confidence in him is a balm, warm as it settles over his skin, even if Jim does not believe it himself.
Jim looks away from the mark on the ceiling, makes himself meet Spock’s eyes. His gaze is as steady as his strong fingers pressing into Jim’s skin. Jim can feel the exhaustion fully now, the undercurrent of adrenaline that has not really gone away since they got the call from Tom is muted, almost gone. Every part of him feels heavy, including his heart. He turns away.
“I understand loss,” Jim says. It’s true. He’s been trained for it: at The Academy, his first year on a ship, his first day as captain. His whole life, exposing himself to loss as he chased the one thing he was sure that he wanted. “I am not numb to it, but I understand it. I know how to deal with it. I could not have gotten this far if I didn’t.” He takes another deep breath.
Spock does not speak into the silence. His fingers slide over Jim’s heart.
Jim continues, “I suppose I just thought that there wasn’t anything else he could take from me. Kodos. I thought that I already had my fill of hurt at his hands. I wasn’t expecting this; I never prepared for it.”
Spock nods in acknowledgement. He’s frowning slightly, a sign he is considering what Jim just said deeply. Jim isn’t sure he wants his words to undergo that kind of scrutiny.
“Kodos is dead. He caused you and others a great deal of pain. However, he was not successful in taking from you who you are at your core. He did not take your strength, or your compassion. He did not take what makes you uniquely… human. I do not mean to be callous. You lost much at his hands, but you did not lose yourself. I find that I am immensely grateful for that.”
Jim’s heart stutters. He takes a breath. Spock’s fingers slide back to his neck and feel blessedly cool against his heating skin.
They fall into silence, which no longer feels loaded. Spock’s touch is firm, and Jim can feel his body releasing tension in places he had not been aware of. After his eyes flutter shut, Spock pulls back his hands.
“That should be sufficient for tonight,” Spock says softly. He moves to leave but then hesitates.
Jim isn’t sure what he wants. Or perhaps he isn’t sure which want he wants to give in to. He wants Spock to leave. He wants to be alone and hidden from the depth of understanding in Spock’s eyes. He wants to forget the feeling of being an open wound. So he could easily dismiss him. But he also wants Spock to stay. He wants to fall asleep with the feeling of those cool fingers against his bare skin. He wants to allow himself to seek comfort and allow himself to receive it. He wants to let his thoughts turn dangerous and warm as sleep approaches.
He settles for something in between. He sits, and Spock draws back his hand slowly enough that it brushes against the length of Jim’s abdomen as he adjusts his position. He presses his own hand against Spock’s shoulder, squeezes it, and looks him in the eye as he says, “Thank you, Spock.”
“You are welcome,” Spock replies. He waits for a moment, still seated on Jim’s small bed. His brows furrow for a second and his eyes stay focused on Jim, questioning.
If Spock were a different man it would be a verbal question. He’s asking Jim if they are okay.
Jim nods, lets a bit of a smile into his eyes. The corners of Spock’s mouth twitch as he rises, and slips back on his boots. He stops again by the door.
“Sleep well, Captain.” Warmth suffuses the words, and for the first time in weeks, Jim knows that he will.