"You'd imagine," could be agreement, and Jim takes a slow sip of his coffee, reminding himself that no, Vulcans don't lie, but they can dodge questions. He wonders if Spock even realizes he hasn't answered, though. Probably not. Probably a topic beneath him, despite the fact that Jim thinks he's better at splitting his heart and his body than his first officer-- something he's aware would get him the eyebrow arch to end all eyebrow arches were he to mention it.
There is no further elaboration. Jim's not sure if he actually feels like trying to poke his friend into understanding what he's talking about - he's gotten pretty good at it, he feels, but sometimes the mental sensation of hitting his head against a willfully obstinate wall becomes tiring. You know, fondly. Sort of.
Sometimes he also doesn't need to. Spock's way of watching Jim is typically Vulcan in fixed, if mild study, in which he may or may not be replaying in his mind the current conversation with the kind of accuracy that gives accusations of robot some weight. Jim could be agreeing with him in his echo. It is also oblique.
"Yes, I imagine," he affirms, regardless. "The experience you describe is not uncommon, shared throughout a multitude of species. But its behavioural expression differs between type."
Clearly.
He recaps his coffee to retain its heat.
"But to answer your question, I have. Do you refer to a ledge in particular, Jim?"
A year ago he might have elaborated, today he doesn't. Strangely, it's due to feeling closer to Spock. Jim's come to understand that trying to shove things into the half-Vulcan's face to try and force his human side into cooperation is not only largely useless but most often counter-productive and insulting. (Not to say he doesn't still give it the old academy try.) Better to not meander.
"I think I've finally come around to it being all relief."
Humans can be difficult, but when you commune with them daily, on an ongoing basis, with a desire to understand them, there are patterns and trends one can follow, each as unique as there are people. Any reticence on Jim's part is taken for what it is, in this event, and Spock's face doesn't do anything so drastic as smile.
"You think so?" --is rhetorical in its musing, because of course Spock thinks so, or he wouldn't have said. Jim sips his coffee, looking up at the construction of his ship. Their ship; their home. How could he have been thinking of leaving? Finally, these months later, the embarrassed, fight-or-flight pinpricks don't alight the back of his neck at the memory. Yorktown station is incredible, but he's already bored of it. He would have been killing himself as a Vice Admiral.
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There is no further elaboration. Jim's not sure if he actually feels like trying to poke his friend into understanding what he's talking about - he's gotten pretty good at it, he feels, but sometimes the mental sensation of hitting his head against a willfully obstinate wall becomes tiring. You know, fondly. Sort of.
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"Yes, I imagine," he affirms, regardless. "The experience you describe is not uncommon, shared throughout a multitude of species. But its behavioural expression differs between type."
Clearly.
He recaps his coffee to retain its heat.
"But to answer your question, I have. Do you refer to a ledge in particular, Jim?"
no subject
A year ago he might have elaborated, today he doesn't. Strangely, it's due to feeling closer to Spock. Jim's come to understand that trying to shove things into the half-Vulcan's face to try and force his human side into cooperation is not only largely useless but most often counter-productive and insulting. (Not to say he doesn't still give it the old academy try.) Better to not meander.
"I think I've finally come around to it being all relief."
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But it's a little there in spirit.
"A most logical adaptation, captain."
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"Hopefully I'll still be able to see the ledges."