[ Holing up in his bedroom for the better part of the day as he works over problems with the new phaser-fire on his homemade PADD, at first Jim thinks that Leonard has left the radio on (Jesus, a radio, he can barely believe where they are sometimes until thoughts like that cross his mind) in the living room. It's not a disturbance but it is distracting, coaxing him out into the apartment proper on bare-feet, a thicker than usual scruff of blond and grey hairs on his jaw as he slides the PADD under an arm and stuffs his fingers in the pockets of jeans. When it becomes apparent that the noise is echoing in real-time, he curiously brushes the curtain between his and Spock's domain aside, briefly suffused with the memory of sharing a bathroom on the Enterprise and giving cursory knocks. He's silent now as he paces inside and finds his attention zoning in on Spock ... with a lute, almost Vulcan were it not for the fact it's obviously been rigged up with the same happenstance grit that Jim's PADD also owns; an approximation of the real thing, clever and unique in its variation.
The soothing, almost warm vibrations shiver harp-like through his skin and set the hairs on the nape of his neck on end, leaning back against the wall to watch strong fingers flutter across strings, their docility a counterpoint to the attentiveness of the player. It's beautiful, and a part of Jim that feels strangely alien aches with the knowledge the source of that music is gone. Even after all this time, unobtrusively letting the song wash over him, he can recall an old Vulcan's sorrow and longing for home, rekindled again like a stolen photograph in his grasp while immersed in the moment.
Blue eyes travel up from clever digits along bowing wrists, watching Spock's expression as he plays. It could hardly be called emotive by any passer-by, but Jim reads the empathy in his friend's dedication and decides not to interrupt. His shoulders slide down the wall after a minute spent dutifully silent as a one-man audience and it's there behind bent knees that the blue lights of his PADD glimmer back to life, content to work in the wake of Spock's artful harmonies. ]
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The soothing, almost warm vibrations shiver harp-like through his skin and set the hairs on the nape of his neck on end, leaning back against the wall to watch strong fingers flutter across strings, their docility a counterpoint to the attentiveness of the player. It's beautiful, and a part of Jim that feels strangely alien aches with the knowledge the source of that music is gone. Even after all this time, unobtrusively letting the song wash over him, he can recall an old Vulcan's sorrow and longing for home, rekindled again like a stolen photograph in his grasp while immersed in the moment.
Blue eyes travel up from clever digits along bowing wrists, watching Spock's expression as he plays. It could hardly be called emotive by any passer-by, but Jim reads the empathy in his friend's dedication and decides not to interrupt. His shoulders slide down the wall after a minute spent dutifully silent as a one-man audience and it's there behind bent knees that the blue lights of his PADD glimmer back to life, content to work in the wake of Spock's artful harmonies. ]