Spock wants, more than anything, to touch Jim. Which is an odd impulse, but
it's there all the same. A hold over from the days when he was young and
his mother could indulge in human comforts without his father intruding on
it. Without his reminder that, as a Vulcan, it was improper to be held in
such a way. That Spock needed to adjust to a less tactile atmosphere.
Sometimes, she would still run a hand over his hair or stroke his back
while he ate. He thinks about moments like that when he's stressed or tired
or lonely. And then he remembers how they won't come back, again.
Still. Jim's words awaken that old, instinctual desire that he thinks all
humans have--even half humans; that desire to know that they are not alone.
And that, somewhere, someone cares about what happens to them.
"You need not be frightened, Jim," he says honestly. And Spock's scared
too, for different reasons. But he can see now how selfish he's been the
last week. So whatever's going on in his own head has to be shelved. Should
have been, ages ago.
"But. You should tell me all you've omitted. I am sorry I did not fully
inquire before we began this, but I know now I am missing vital
information. Please." He leans forward, almost onto his knees. His hand
presses into Jim's hand in a way he hopes is grounding and not restraining.
"Please, Jim. I will listen. Tell me."
It's a little startling because he knows how intimate the touching of hands is for Vulcans - Jim knows entirely too much about Vulcan culture for an outsider, thanks to Ambassador Spock. That, at least, is knowledge he'll never lose. But he remembers Spock is also part human, and this is very human of him.
Jim sighs.
"It wasn't right, the first time he did it. He was unstable from the shock of being in a new dimension and watching Vulcan die. Melding with me was logical and the most effective thing to do, but what passed between us was.. more emotional transference than there should have been. He knew it even then, I think, but he was too in shock and I was in too much of a hurry. I had other shit going on."
(Like being marooned on Delta Vega and needing to get back to the Enterprise or die trying.)
"I was so focused that it was just-- it was this thing that happened, and then I didn't think of it again for weeks. He explained it like, my psyche is so willful and dominant that it just overrode anything he left behind until I was settled down, and even then it was almost as though I could tell when I was thinking about something that didn't originate from me."
... An odd way of phrasing everything. But it's odd. All of it. Spock should be able to make sense of it, though.
Spock wishes acutely that he had spoken to Jim before coming here. Because it's clear he's had a few misunderstandings about what had happened. Not many and his concerns are far from being appeased, but. Things weren't precisely how he thought. And Jim had deserved to be listened to instead of pushed into yet another thing he didn't understand. Spock's hand stays where it is, but he shifts to get a bit more comfortable as he listens, patient and face free of judgement.
"You knew you had memories that were not your own. Did you...reach out to him to correct this?" Spock is already trying to think of the weeks after Vulcan's demise. It's hard to push past the blackness of those days. Those weeks where he pretended to be fine and perform his duties as was expected of him, but could barely even close his eyes without seeing his planet destroyed.
It didn't help that his father had now lifted their wall of silence, between them. It should have helped, but it didn't. Spock knew the only reason they were speaking to one another was because his mother had died. And, knowing that, every time the man reached out, it was just yet another reminder that it had taken the loss of the one person who had loved him unconditionally to get a single word.
Spock pushed it back and leaned away, hand left in the space between them instead of retracted back against him, as though he were disgusted by what Jim were saying.
"We'd been in infrequent communication, but I reached out to him after... Khan," after I died, "because I needed-- someone to understand. And it was confusing to be in my own head at the time." Jim laughs a little. "It would have been confusing even without someone else's thoughts. I.. couldn't let any of you see me like that."
Jim looks down, shoulders slumped. He doesn't look like himself. He doesn't look like Ambassador Spock, either, he just looks tired. It's slowly beginning to sink in that his friend is dead and that he's going to lose the last remnant he has of him.
"There'd been a time when we were doing something and it was familiar-- this mission, I'm not going to tell you which one-- but the details were skewed. So I did an experiment with myself. I called in what I remembered and held it against what I felt I should do on my own. And I swear to you, it was stark enough of a difference that it almost didn't matter. It's never been consistent. Sometimes I remembered things and sometimes I wouldn't. But after that time..." the whole dead thing. Jim scrubs a hand over his face.
"The ambassador was just. Too worried. He gave me a low dose of lexorin and spent a coupe days poking around in my head doing.. whatever. He ended up admitting the drug was probably overkill, though."
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no subject
Spock wants, more than anything, to touch Jim. Which is an odd impulse, but it's there all the same. A hold over from the days when he was young and his mother could indulge in human comforts without his father intruding on it. Without his reminder that, as a Vulcan, it was improper to be held in such a way. That Spock needed to adjust to a less tactile atmosphere.
Sometimes, she would still run a hand over his hair or stroke his back while he ate. He thinks about moments like that when he's stressed or tired or lonely. And then he remembers how they won't come back, again.
Still. Jim's words awaken that old, instinctual desire that he thinks all humans have--even half humans; that desire to know that they are not alone. And that, somewhere, someone cares about what happens to them.
"You need not be frightened, Jim," he says honestly. And Spock's scared too, for different reasons. But he can see now how selfish he's been the last week. So whatever's going on in his own head has to be shelved. Should have been, ages ago.
"But. You should tell me all you've omitted. I am sorry I did not fully inquire before we began this, but I know now I am missing vital information. Please." He leans forward, almost onto his knees. His hand presses into Jim's hand in a way he hopes is grounding and not restraining. "Please, Jim. I will listen. Tell me."
no subject
Jim sighs.
"It wasn't right, the first time he did it. He was unstable from the shock of being in a new dimension and watching Vulcan die. Melding with me was logical and the most effective thing to do, but what passed between us was.. more emotional transference than there should have been. He knew it even then, I think, but he was too in shock and I was in too much of a hurry. I had other shit going on."
(Like being marooned on Delta Vega and needing to get back to the Enterprise or die trying.)
"I was so focused that it was just-- it was this thing that happened, and then I didn't think of it again for weeks. He explained it like, my psyche is so willful and dominant that it just overrode anything he left behind until I was settled down, and even then it was almost as though I could tell when I was thinking about something that didn't originate from me."
... An odd way of phrasing everything. But it's odd. All of it. Spock should be able to make sense of it, though.
no subject
"You knew you had memories that were not your own. Did you...reach out to him to correct this?" Spock is already trying to think of the weeks after Vulcan's demise. It's hard to push past the blackness of those days. Those weeks where he pretended to be fine and perform his duties as was expected of him, but could barely even close his eyes without seeing his planet destroyed.
It didn't help that his father had now lifted their wall of silence, between them. It should have helped, but it didn't. Spock knew the only reason they were speaking to one another was because his mother had died. And, knowing that, every time the man reached out, it was just yet another reminder that it had taken the loss of the one person who had loved him unconditionally to get a single word.
Spock pushed it back and leaned away, hand left in the space between them instead of retracted back against him, as though he were disgusted by what Jim were saying.
"Go on. Please."
no subject
Jim looks down, shoulders slumped. He doesn't look like himself. He doesn't look like Ambassador Spock, either, he just looks tired. It's slowly beginning to sink in that his friend is dead and that he's going to lose the last remnant he has of him.
"There'd been a time when we were doing something and it was familiar-- this mission, I'm not going to tell you which one-- but the details were skewed. So I did an experiment with myself. I called in what I remembered and held it against what I felt I should do on my own. And I swear to you, it was stark enough of a difference that it almost didn't matter. It's never been consistent. Sometimes I remembered things and sometimes I wouldn't. But after that time..." the whole dead thing. Jim scrubs a hand over his face.
"The ambassador was just. Too worried. He gave me a low dose of lexorin and spent a coupe days poking around in my head doing.. whatever. He ended up admitting the drug was probably overkill, though."