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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"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."
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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."