[ The trip home (haha, "home") is uneventfully quiet and mired in grief that has nowhere to go but into choked throats. That's how Jim feels, at least. By the time Bones sits him down, Jim's been stealing long enough glances at Spock to see there's something significantly twisted out of place there too (misaligned) in the quiet void where there should be skipping intellect and quips and barbed replies aimed at everyone in his general vicinity. Jim looks at him at length, shifts forward to crouch in front of him over a bent knee. Bones will kill him for moving, he's sure, a concern that slips into the wayside. ]

Spock. [ A hand covers one of a pair cemented to a lap and Jim tries to reach into wherever Spock's gone. He's still perfectly aware, obviously, but. I know you. ] Spock, look at me.

[ It's his turn now to do the comforting, gesturing clumsily with his free hand at the furniture, room, everything. Blue eyes flicker like shuttering lasers when he has to blink the salt-sweat from stinging his eyes. ]

Ignore that, all of it, I'm. I'm the only thing I want you to look at, okay? You listen to your Captain.