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Spock came to awareness quickly, keeping his eyes shut and his breathing regular as he attempted to catalogue his surroundings. It was dark; his eyelids did not have any greenish tinge from light coming through the thin skin. It was cold; he estimated the temperature of his surroundings to be approximately seven degrees centigrade. Jim was with him; he heard the harsh breathing of a human close by and could faintly detect the smell of Jim's skin.
He opened his eyes. It was almost black; he could make out nothing in the room. "Jim," he murmured.
There was warmth along his right side as Jim moved closer. Cool fingers traced their way down his arm and wrapped around his hand, squeezing.
"Are you okay?" Jim said into his ear. "You were out for a while. Blow to the head."
Spock cautiously raised his free hand to feel the back of his head. There was indeed a bump. He prodded it gingerly, cataloguing the pain response he felt. Not life-threatening. As Dr. McCoy often said, 'better out than in'. Facile but accurate, in the case of head trauma. "I am not grievously injured. However, I do not recall how we came to find ourselves here." His last memory was the trade negotiations with the government of the most powerful nation on Gamma Aquilae VII; the delegation had drawn weapons and he had moved to disarm the nearest of them.
Jim shifted until their arms were touching from shoulder to wrist. Jim was warmer than the room and the contact was comfortable. "That big guy you got in a fistfight with pistol-whipped you in the back of the head and dropped you like a bag of rocks. I didn't last much longer on my own and they threw us in this cell—actually, it might be more like a cave with a door. We've been in here for about half an hour, I think."
Spock idly traced the shape of Jim's thumb with his own as he processed the information. His head had begun to hurt and he took a moment to compartmentalize the pain. "What is your assessment?" he asked finally.
Jim sighed. "The door's pretty thick and there's literally nothing in here except us and maybe some standing water and cockroaches. We're gonna have to wait till we miss our check-in. We probably can't beam out through the rock here, either. We're a ways underground."
Two hours, at least, assuming an efficient and successful extraction. Spock disliked when this happened. It was unbecoming of a Vulcan or a scientist, but he considered himself a man of action, at least in situations of stress, and the logical necessity of waiting for the action of other parties was irritating. He leaned a fraction more of his weight against Jim's shoulder and felt the answering press holding him upright.
"I hate waiting for the cavalry, too," said Jim. A more obvious statement of Jim's personality could not be discovered, Spock was certain.
"The feeling of... powerlessness... is unfortunate," Spock agreed.
"Hey," Jim said suddenly, in a tone of voice that was always paired with a smirk. "Remember Omega Tauri? That was a fun way to kill time." His fingers slid suggestively against Spock's.
Spock remembered it vividly. There had been more light in the cell. "I remember Dr. McCoy vowing never to lead the rescue party again."
Jim laughed aloud. "You have to admit that the look on his face was hilarious."
Spock allowed himself a little smirk; it was dark, after all. "The aphorism, 'a picture is worth a thousand words' comes to mind."
Jim snorted, and then after a moment he sighed. "Guess you're not up for that again, huh?"
"Let us say that the situation is not ideal, especially given the last time." He would not have said no to more body contact, however; he was beginning to thoroughly feel the damp chill through his uniform.
"Fine, spoilsport," Jim said, with a note of affection. He shuffled even closer, raising their joined hands onto Spock's thigh and pressing their sides together. Spock sighed at the relative warmth of the contact and tightened his fingers against Jim's for a second.
Jim rested his head on Spock's shoulder and they were quiet for several minutes. Spock passed the time by calculating the probability of success of several escape plans (all too low to risk, especially given the high likelihood of their rescue within the next two-point-five hours). He also reassessed his state of physical health (the only injury of note was the bump on his head, which still throbbed but was not difficult to ignore; the rest was assorted bruises and cuts from his very short fistfight), monitored Jim's state by paying attention to the vital signs he could detect (no apparent injuries beyond probable superficial ones), and very slightly, in a corner of his consciousness, enjoyed the familiar press of Jim's body against his side and the feeling of their joined hands.
When Jim spoke again, it was quiet, as if he did not wish to disturb the calm atmosphere they had created within their cell.
"E4," he said.
Spock blinked.
"Your move."
Of course. Spock closed his eyes briefly, imagining a chess board. "E5," he responded.
Jim's thumb caressed his hand lazily. "Nf3."
ENDGAME