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I thought you were dead, Spock says just this side of audible, his voice stripped of any emotion, bare and hollow.
Jim doesn't need to see him, he knows how Spock looks - rigid posture, pinched mouth, slanted eyebrows slightly drawn together.
His face is a picture of disapproval and unhappiness but only if you know his face as good as Jim does.
Because he learned every expression of this beloved face hard way. Years and years of this study and now he doesn't need to look.
I thought I was dead too, he replies with carefully calculated smirk.
He is tired to the bones, to the very marrow, all way deep deep inside.
Needs coffee. A big cup with silly cartoon style print of a lion in starfleet uniform drinking coffee sitting atop a pile of drunken klingons.
His brilliant pilot-navigator tandem thought it was hilarious gift for his thirtieth birthday.
Laughed their ases off.
Spock almost rolled his eyes.
As if he needs more encouragement, Bones grumbled.
Hear hear, Nyota added.
And Scotty saluted with his scotch glass.
He needs this cup now. Where is it?
He stands up from the chair to make his way to replicator but his legs still feel a teensy bit wobbly after three days in the deep well said klingons hurled his unconscious body into.
Whoa.
Need to regroup if he'doesnt want to fall. And he really doesn't, thank you but no, nada, nyet, after this Alice alike travel that ended abrupt fast and blindingly painful.
But of course Spock makes a step and invades his personal space without hesitation, gripping his arm, supporting him.
The strength these slender hands posess still awe Jim.
Please sit, Captain, Spock says and dry ice in his voice is so familiar that it feels like home. If Jim ever knew what home is.
Ice ice baby, sing-songed Jim once long time ago and next time they were in their respected cabins he heard the muffled sound of the ancient song behind the thin bulkhead. It made his day that day. Was it six years ago already?
Spock's hand is still on his upper arm, heat seeping through the long-sleeved tshirt. It is so unlogical that Jim gets goosebumps all over his tattered body.
But when is anything ever logical with Spock. Not that he is gonna say that aloud. Ever.
The old venomous craving flares in his chest, sharp and bright. The shadow of the thought he doesn't allow himself to form.
So tired.
Hold me.
Impossible thought of course.
He doesn't sit yet but lifts his hand and takes hold of Spock' sleeve just above his elbow. Spock stands still reluctantly allowing contact, serving as anchor.
Jim treats himself to a sigh, breathes in the comfort, letting go of these cursed three days.
He may be many things but nobody can call him ungrateful.
Thank you for coming for me, he says.
Always, Captain, Spock answers firmly.
Spock' hot hot fingers squeeze just a fraction, a teensy bit, and Jim feels not tired at all for a bright painful giddy moment.
He needs coffee and a bit of hope.
Good as new he will be.