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Jim’s wrists have receded into a dull ache, as numb as the legs folded beneath him. His whole body is sore, no longer from the struggle but now mere exhaustion: he’s been here too long, too stiff, too drained. The slick rope, made of unidentifiable alien fibers, is wound tight along his arms, binding them behind his back, his ankles and thighs similarly fastened. He spent the first few hours trying to squirm free, but there’s still no give to his bonds, and Spock urged him to save his strength.
Spock tells him now, “You should rest, Captain,” and Jim winces, because he knows Spock’s right.
He’ll be no good to anyone like this. But it’s not just about him, and he says, “I can’t. If there’s any chance of getting you out of here, I need to be alert when our captors return.”
Spock, seated next to him against the sleek, black wall of an alien brig, spares him a lingering look. The only light they have is the pale glow of the force field a meter in front of them, and it washes an eerie blue over Spock’s high cheekbones and dark hair. He reports in that reassuring drone, “You have been awake for approximately twenty-one hours. We have been in alien custody for seventeen of that, contained for fifteen, and it has been seven hours since our last contact when we were fed. At this point it is highly unlikely your ‘alert’ status will benefit us, and I think it prudent for you to rest and retain your strength for when Mr. Scott discovers our abduction and mounts a rescue.”
Jim has no strength now. It was drained out of him in the first struggle and mounted in the isolation since, and now he’s sluggish with too poor circulation. But Jim still stubbornly insists, “You’re my first officer, and I’m going to make sure you get out of this one way or another.” He doesn’t know how. But protecting Spock isn’t Scotty’s job; it’s Jim’s. And he’s still angry with himself for taking Spock with him down to that unknown planet, where they were out of contact with the ship and ripe for the taking.
Spock looks at Jim like he knows. He wears only the usual thin frown, but his eyes betray the rest: he’s touched by the sentiment, in his own way. He holds Jim’s gaze and says gravely, quietly, “Please rest, Jim. I will take watch.” He doesn’t say that his Vulcan side will keep him alert far longer than Jim, but they both know it.
And Jim wants to sleep, wants to collapse in his bed aboard the Enterprise, safe with an unbound Spock in his arms.
He quirks a half-hearted smile and gives one last lame attempt at deflection: “It’s not exactly the most comfortable place to settle down in.”
Spock says, “You have my shoulder.” And that speaks more volumes than anything else they’ve said today. He wouldn’t say that if they weren’t alone, if this weren’t serious, if he weren’t trying to give Jim comfort that Vulcan propriety doesn’t allow.
Jim tells him numbly, “Thanks.”
The alien brig is blocky and uncomfortable. The rope makes it difficult to move. But Jim manages to shift sideways, to lean his cheek against Spock’s shoulder, to prop his legs up against Spock’s lap, and Spock curls in to meet him, the two of them protectively cocooned together. Spock’s blue tunic is torn where the first alien grabbed him, but there’s no bruise underneath. The angle’s awkward, but the subtle, familiar scent of Spock gives Jim all he needs. He can feel Spock’s head leaning gently against his. He finally lets his eyes close.
And when he next opens them, it’s to the transporter room and Bones’ relieved smile, Spock still nestled at his side.