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Jim goes to take a slow step back, but cuts the movement off short when it causes what he thinks are the being’s eyes to narrow. Without taking his gaze off it, he moves only enough to turn on his comm. “So, uh, that life sign we found? I may or may not have inadvertently found the cause of it,” he says softly into it and the being’s maybe-eyes narrow further. Its fear is so heavy in the air, Jim can almost taste it.
Spock’s voice comes through the comm. “Status?”
“Possibly sentient?” Jim offers, which is sort of weak, but he doesn’t have all that fancy equipment the away team brought down with them. “It’s hard to tell.”
“Do not attempt to make contact without assistance; I would prefer not to have a repeat of our previous mission,” Spock says, and Jim can hear the quirk of his eyebrow that means he is judging Jim right now. Hard.
“That was not my fault,” Jim argues, barely managing to keep the heat out of his tone, because, fuck, it wasn’t and everyone on his goddamn insubordinate crew still looks at him with their our poor depraved captain faces whenever it comes up. The being makes an odd, gurgling noise that sounds like it’s intended to be threatening and Jim spots, suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, a nest with five mini-beings hidden away in the foliage to his left. Jesus, he’s probably blocking a parent from zir young; this could get really ugly really fast. “How far away are you?”
“Approximately two point six minutes,” is the immediate reply.
“Yeah, I’m gonna need you to halve that.”
“This is not possible,” Spock says, but his voice is strained in that way that Jim’s starting to realise indicates frustration and concern. Jim still kind of suspected Spock was part robot after what Spock awkwardly termed their altercation on the bridge and Jim cheerfully refers to as that time you tried to kill me (so sue him, he likes the way it turns the tips of Spock’s ears green), but that’s been hard to hold onto now that he’s getting used to the tiny ways that Spock shows emotion. It is, Jim’s man enough to admit, his own fault he’s received this crash course in reading Vulcans anyway—he probably ends up in situations like this more than is strictly speaking normal for a captain of a Starfleet vessel (or, okay, possibly anyone ever).
Now he knows what he’s dealing with, Jim can sense a deeply protective maternal (paternal?) anger in the waves of emotion the being is emitting, and it’s getting stronger, making him light-headed and dizzy. The being lets out another noise, slightly louder and somewhere between the earlier gurgle and a hiss; Jim wavers on his feet.
“No, seriously, Spock,” he slurs into the comm. “I need you guys here five minutes ago.”
There’s a sound like a swift intake of breath and then Jim can make out Spock speaking, but only every other word means anything to him. His vision blurs and his knees start to buckle and he reaches out to steady himself against a tree trunk. The being hisses again and pure, unadulterated rage engulfs him—he realises, too late, the movement had put him closer to the nest.
He feels, distantly, the ground coming up to meet him, a rock digging into his hip, dirt embedding itself under his fingernails, grass tickling at his face. It’s—not comfortable, but Spock and the others won’t be much longer and he might as well wait down here, where it feels less like he’s asphyxiating, less like the world is swimming in front of his eyes, until they arrive.
Jim’s eyelids flutter and close, his face goes soft, his panicking heartbeat slows and his breathing evens out. He sleeps.